Wednesday, October 8, 2014

To Become A Master

The internet says it takes ten years to master something. This is often referred to as the 10,000 hour rule, or some such nonsense. This is, of course, dependent on the blogs you read or the sources you use. The general consensus involves 6+ years of repeating said task to the point of mastery. So my question for you, internet, is why am I still fucking these up? 

 1.) I have been shaving my legs for far longer than I care to admit. It's been well over a decade. Yet I'm still getting out of the shower looking like a just escaped a turf war with a less-than-savory street cat. 

 2.) Making coffee. If it weren't for my Keurig, I'd still be burning that shit. I have no mechanism for deciding on an appropriate coffee to water ratio. Like, I try to eye-ball it but its just a disappointment. 

 3.) Parallel parking. I may as well be driving a space shuttle. I've been doing it for 11+ years, and I still have to do that awkward parallel-park-dance with my car where you pull forward by 4 inches and pull back by 6 inches and then realize you turned the wheel the wrong way so you just keep going like it was deliberate but everyone knows it wasn't deliberate and now there's a small crowd gathering and some 16-year-old is laughing at you because they just took their road test and aced it but he doesn't understand that not everyone has the skill set to maneuver a large piece of machinery in such a way that it is evenly placed between two other giant peices of machinery and that this is a really intimidating process for some people because hitting another vehicle is serious especially if that other car is a really nice car then you're just fucked because that person is going to be pissed that you just hit their new car I mean, they just had that shit waxed so you'll be in some serious first-world trouble especially if that person has an uncle-lawyer then you're totally screwed and then some guy named Dan is sticking his head into your passenger side window asking if you need help, ma'am and you smile politely and say no, I got it and really you're having a panic attack and you just don't want grubby, cigarette-smelling Dan touching your car because he kind of looks like a car thief even though you're quite sure he's just a nice mechanic but hey, you never can tell with people, can you? So you finally get your car close enough to the curb so that it's socially acceptable to be a little crooked even though you're an obnoxious perfectionist with a touch of OCD, you can't do anything about it because now you're late and don't have time to straighten your stupid car out because it took you this long just to get it in the goddamn parking spot in the first place. So, yea. 

 4.) Eating or/and drinking. I miss my mouth more than any self-respecting adult should. 

 5.) Laundry is the bane of my existence. I've been doing laundry since I can remember and I still manage to mess it up. Too much detergent. Not enough detergent. Wrong water temperature. I don't understand seperating my white clothing from the rest of it. Chrissy, why are you putting six dryer sheets in there? I've ruined more clothing than wine, grass, pizza grease, and that red dress you bought last year for that Christmas party you went to and spent 45 miserable minutes at and then left because you had a headache and then you washed that dress and all of your socks are now pink... combined. Hey, at least you looked good. 

 6.) Eyebrow shaping. Been doing it since someone called me Brooke Shields in seventh grade. You do the math. I should be a professional eyebrow shaper by now. But no. Its like a different language to me. Are my eyebrows crooked or is it just my face? No one knows for sure. 

 7.) Walking. I've been walking for a really long time. Why, exactly, am I still tripping over myself? And inanimate objects? And pets? And small children? And my own coffee table? I know its there. I see that shit everyday. I'm using it now. Am I going to trip on it on my way to the kitchen? Probably. 

 8.) Makeup. In general. Why cant I figure my life out? How much bronzer is too much bronzer? Who knows? Not me. 

 9.) Social cues. They just don't work on me. I'm a beacon of social awkwardness. 

 10.) Time management. 30 minutes to wake up, hit the snooze 3 times, make coffee, morning potty break, drink said coffee, take a shower, get dressed, do my hair, put makeup on, make food for the day, get in the car, drive to work, stop for gas, stop for wretched school busses, find parking, and get to my desk? Sure! Why not? Oh... because it takes me half an hour just to shower.... I have absolutely zero time management related planning skills. None. I've been planning and managing life things forever. Still can't do it right.

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Define "Artist"

I came across a quote while in a Pinterest coma one day that resonates with me more than most when it comes to my identity as a creative human.

 “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” ― Cesar A. Cruz 

Last night I was watching "Oddities" on Netflix. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this awesomeness, "Oddities" is a reality show of sorts that showcases an antique shop called "Obscura". This incredible store in NYC has the most delightful collection of antiques and, you guessed it, obscure items. They deal in anything from pickled two-headed animals to early medical equipment that seem more like torture devices. They buy and sell only the most thought-provoking pieces and a visit to this little house of wonders is certainly top ten on my bucket list. I hope to get a picture with Mike & Evan, the owners of the store, and possibly acquire a piece from their collection if the price is right. But back to the point...

In the episode I watched last night the owners of the shop were delivering "supplies" to an artist. Although I'm not a fan of her particular esthetic, she said something that shook me, "It is my job, as an artist, to evoke emotion in people. To make them feel something," I don't remember her name or the exact verbiage used but that was the basic idea. And it hit me. So I'd like to take a moment to reflect on this idea and dissect what this means to me. I've been far too polite in my artistic endeavors. I hold back because I don't want to make anyone flinch. I have a small personal collection of photographs and art that I don't share with many people because I don't want to offend anyone. In this, I have failed as someone who considers herself to be a creative individual. As an "artist" I care way too much about my viewer. I've settled for praise when I really want to strive for shock and awe. I want to provoke my audience. To make them think. To wake up an otherwise slumbering world with images and pieces that, as Cesar put it, "comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." That is what art means and is. It should make people think and feel something. Anything. Art is an expression of the inner most workings of the artist's soul. What the artist sees is poured into the expression and placed in front of the viewer in an attempt to stir emotion out of them. To help them see the world through new eyes, and perhaps discover some feeling in themselves that they haven't noticed before. People are complex and weird and beautiful and enthralling all at once. Yet we do our best, as a society, to fit into polite conformity. Let me elaborate. As people we conform, as a person we are completely our own. We know this. 

I have a special breed of "stage-fright" that battles me whenever I try to showcase myself, or my work, on any platform. I love beautiful things. I love grotesque things. Last night's epiphany has inspired me to create some new pieces and not to worry so much about opinions. A concept I still struggle with. Its mostly my own opinions that are my downfall. I should remember that. 

Peace & Love & all that jazz.

Exact quote that helped inspire this blog-

"My job as an artist is to provoke people. I think if you don't provoke people, they are just numb." 
-Heide Hatry

Thank you for the inspiration Ms. Hatry!

Monday, September 22, 2014

What's for dinner?

This one is for all the indecisive females. We have all gotten the same complaints from our significant others when it comes to meal time. The daunting question is, "What/where do you wanna eat?" to which we reply with what is apparently an infuriating (who knew?), "I dunno. What do you want to eat?" It has come to my attention that this reply is somewhat unsatisfactory to our lovers. So please allow me to address this situation as eloquently as possible. 

 There are several reasons why we answer this simple question so broadly. Let me just say that if your female does respond as dramatically or/and negatively as you claim she does when you suggest places/things to eat, you dont need to feed that bitch anyway. However, if she does legitimately freak out at your suggestion it probably means that you've been together for 3+ years, she has a shellfish allergy, and you wanted to take her to Red fucking Lobster. Jerk.

Reasons we "don't know" what we want to eat include, but are not limited to, the following: 

 1.) We really just dont know. No. Seriously. We have no idea. Move on with your life. 

 2.) We are leaving the decision up to you because we care about your wants and desires. You're welcome. Asshole. 

 3.) We legit don't care. Just fucking pick a place. I'm hungry. 

 4.) Why don't YOU know what you want to eat? Huh? Quit your bitchin'. 

 5.) We don't know what we want to eat because we are presented with far too many options. Dont blame us. Blame America. 

 6.) Why can't you just pick a place? Is that so hard? What happened to your spontaneity? Where is your sense of adventure? Have we grown so complacent in our relationship that you have to blame me for something we're both indecisive about? Why dont you look at me anymore? I GOT MY HAIR CUT! YOU DONT NOTICE ANYTHING! YOUR JUST LIKE YOUR [enter gender appropriate parent here]! NOW LEAVE ME ALONE AND SNUGGLE ME BUT CALL ME PRETTY AND DONT SPEAK TO ME YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE SWEETHEART! 

 7.) #6. That bitch doesn't need to eat. See what I did there? 

 8.) Unless shes pregnant. In that case, please feed her. 

 9.) We have very eclectic tastes in food. Food choices may or may not be influenced by our mood, time of month, music, who is with us, what color shirt you're wearing, whether it's a jean day or a sweatpants day, if there's a dog in the vacinity, what movie is being watched or was recently watched, what activities we have planned for the foreseeable future, what kind of bra we have on, the level of sexual confidance we are currently experienceing, if we went to the gym that day, who the president is, where we went to college, what state we were born in, how we did our hair that day, Vint Cerf and Bob Kahn, altruism, blue, I would like a micropig, seventeen, debouchery, you probably stopped reading this at number 5, and that's cool, i'm not mad, if you did continue reading this, good job sport, k I'm done, what kind of diet we're on, or/and our views on third world famine. 

 10.) We may, in fact, be testing your knowledge of what our preferences are. This is indeed a trap. Sidenote; not all of us do this and it is, for the most part, frowned upon by the rest of us. But it happens. #bitches 

In conclusion, this post was mostly just fuckery, but I hope I enlightened someone out there, internet.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Twenty VS Almost-Thirty

There has definitely been some shifts in my priorities over the last (almost) ten years. Some of which are so endearingly hilarious, that I had to share them with the internet. I can't help but laugh and shake my head at myself for what I thought was important. I'm sure I'll be doing this reflection business again in another ten years. I could have saved so much time, money, energy, and dignity. I think our scope of significance expands drastically between twenty and almost thirty. I wish I could've avoided all the stress and headaches. But then I'd have no lessons to learn from. So ... here goes:

*Shopping for shoes*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Oh my god, I need these shoes. Right now. There will never be another pair like this available. Ever."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Oh, look. I bought these exact same shoes ten years ago. I wore them twice."


20-Year-Old-Me: "I'm always going to have my hair done. All the time."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Sloppy-bun-on-top-of-head? Whatever. At least my bangs aren't in my fuckin eyes."


20-Year-Old-Me: "Oh, I can eat anything I want. I have a really fast metabolism. Go me."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: *Eats half a french fry. Gains 7 pounds.*


20-Year-Old-Me: "Cute purses! I have to buy them all!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "The cheapest/most functional bag I can find!"

*Being a grown up*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Yay I'm an adult and I can do whatever I want!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Adulthood is a fucking trap. When do I get to be 7 again? Never? Awesome. Wake me when it's over."


20-Year-Old-Me: "I'm always going to wear thongs. All the time. I can't wear granny panties. Ew."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Where are all my normal underwear? Why does this have fucking ribbons? Ugh."


20-Year-Old-Me: "French manicures forever!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "I'm sorry. I'm not paying $35-$50 to have someone glue tiny, dehibilitating pieces of plastic to my nails simply to have to endure the inconvenience and unrelenting rage that accompanies them. No."


20-Year-Old-Me: "Yay boys! ...Right?"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Yay girls!"

*Fucks given*

20-Year-Old-Me: *cares about what everyone thinks*

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: Some solid advice- letting go of what you think people might be thinking of you (a practice I'm still working on myself) is so much less stressful. Omg. I can't even begin to explain it. Just pretend that you don't care. Like you don't give any fucks. Just for a second. I'm serious. Go ahead. I'll wait. ... Wasn't that a pinch of fantastic? I mean, wow. So great. Moving on...


20-Year-Old-Me: "I'm just going to keep dying my hair. Until forever." 

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Whats that? My roots are 5 inches long? Who has time to dye their hair every two goddamn weeks? Psh. It's ombré. That's in now, right? Yolo."

*Shoes again*

20-Year-Old-Me: "I'm just going to wear high heels every day. It's classy."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Why would I ever wear these vindictive torture devices? Ever? They hurt my soul and make me feel like a wobbly baby giraffe. Fuck this."


 20-Year-Old-Me: "I can take a couple years off from school. I need to experience life!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Why did I not go to fucking college when I was twenty? Why the fuck did I think that was a good idea? Now I have to be in school till I'm 30. Fucking fuck."


20-Year-Old-Me: "I love vodka so much. It's my favorite. "

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Vodka? It tastes like poor judgement, no thanks. Box wine? Yes, please."


20-Year-Old-Me: *size 4*

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: *sobs*

*Invited to le friend's house*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Ok I'll be right over!" *spends 1-3 hours "getting ready" (whatever the fuck that means)*

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Does this require a bra? Or pants? You know how I hate pants. Also, will there be wine?"

*Going to le gas station*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Better put on makeup & jeans." 

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Sunglasses and fuzzy slippers it is!"

*Going to le grocery store*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Better put on makeup, jeans, that new shirt I got... It wouldn't be ridiculous to wear these high heels to get groceries, would it?"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: *gets out of bed, throws on sunglasses & nearest article of clothing that seems socially acceptable, goes to store*

*Going to le Walmart*

20-Year-Old-Me: *wears pajamas*

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: *wears fucking pajamas* 

Because... Walmart.

*Conversations with friends*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Dude! I can't remember anything about last night after like, 2 AM. What happened? I woke up in my Halloween costume from 6th grade. It's June."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Mortgages, blah blah, babies, yada yada, politics, yip yip, marriage, yap yap, and stocks."

*Out with friends*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Let's stay out all night and make bad decisions! Wooo!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "You want to meet out at 8? Ok but I have to be in bed by 9 so...this is gunna be lame."

*Sleep patterns*

20-Year-Old-Me: "I don't need a nap. Who has time for napping? Yay energy!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Naps are the most amaz... ZZZZzzzz..."


20-Year-Old-Me: "I'm always going to be fashionable. Always. I'm going to change with the times." 

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Da faq is that girl wearing? Are those leopard-print-neon-blacklight-fuzzy leggings? What is wrong with the world?"


20-Year-Old-Me: "My job is my exercise. I don't need to work out."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "If I don't go for a run immediately I might crawl out of my own fucking skin."

*Bad habits*

20-Year-Old-Me: "I love cigarettes."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "I love being able to breathe."

*Going out*

20-Year-Old-Me: "Woooo let's dance all night! I LOVE dancing!"

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "I'm quickly becoming claustrophobic, this bitch just spilled her vodka tonic on me, and if one more person walks into me while I'm standing still and then looks at me like third world famine is my fault I may elbow them in the jugular. Can we leave now?"


20-Year-Old-Me: "I don't really want kids."

Almost-30-Year-Old-Me: "Give me all the babies. ALL of them. Now. Thanks."

I'm fully aware that I could've spun this post into a slew of positive messages for the younger generation. But pessimism is funny. 

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Introductions Are in Order

So this is a blog, huh? Seems like a glorified twitter of sorts, doesn't it? I can't help feeling like this is a bit terrifying. A slight feeling of stage-fright is sinking in. I suppose that should only be an issue if someone is reading this. Literary stage-fright. Is that a thing? Well, if not, it is now. Having stage-fright at this juncture, while typing away on my iPhone, is a little presumptuous. Who am I to assume anyone will be reading this at all? And, if they are, who am I to assume that they are enjoying it or not? I guess I'll just have to hope that someone out there will be amused by this collection of thoughts I am planning to unleash on the internet. I feel as though I might have something to say about something worth speaking on. At some point or another. I have an ensemble of polite and open-ended opinions and theories about the universe we live in. Maybe you, whomever you are, might see fit to add these to your intellectual arsenal.  

Perhaps I should take a moment to properly introduce myself. Yes. My name is Chrissy. Short for Christine. Family calls me Chris. I was supposed to be a Christina but my mother didn't want people shortening that to "Tina". (Thanks, mom!) I'm in my late 20s, live in beautiful upstate New York, and it is almost autumn here. Autumn is one of my favorites. I'm a Virgo, although I'm not sure what ratio of the civilized world pays attention to the zodiac anymore. Besides me, of course. I love the zodiac and completely beleive in it. It's far too precise to be some bogus collection of generalized assumptions. I'm a lesbian. Happily married to my amazing & inspiring & beautiful wife for almost two years now. I'm exceedingly open minded and understanding. I'm a vegan. I don't eat, drink, use, or wear anything that comes from animal exploitation of any kind. It's actually quite easy to do after a little research into the concept. I'm not an extremist or anything. Although I do fantasize about having the balls to be one. I'm five feet, five inches tall. I have too-long brownish hair, dark brown eyes, and a pale complexion. I'm in school for nursing although I'm told I should be a teacher. I'm afraid of the dark. Every time I watch Harry Potter I keep hoping something will change and then all those people (Madeye, Fred, Hedwig, Lupin, Tonks, Sirius, Dobby, etc.) will live and my heart won't shatter over the deaths of fictional characters. No luck so far. I have a slew of hobbies and should therefore never, ever succumb to boredom. Ever. I have three cats that, more often than not, I love. I was a smoker for far longer than I care to admit. This is my 5th week without a cigarette. (Go me!) I work at a hospital. I'd love to be able to not work at all. To stay at home and dabble in things I adore doing or spend some time traveling and seeing things worth seeing. I can't sing or play any instruments although I want to learn how to play the guitar, piano, violin, cello, and ukulele. I want to grow my own garden. I have no special or extraordinary talents. I have a lot of patientce and compassion. I dont own a house yet. Working on it. My car might die the next time I start it. I was brutally unpopular in high school. I curse far more than any self-respecting human being should. Fuckin seriously. It's bad. I'm a firm believer that enough voices and hearts and souls and minds and actions can change the world. I have three tattoos but wish I could have more. I read Anne Rice novels when I find time. I'd like to be a vampire when I grow up, and not the sparkly kind. I abhor ignorance and racism in all it's many forms. I beleive food should be your medicine. I have a bucket list at least a mile long. I'm determined to find Narnia. One of these days, I will. I annoy myself with my analytical tendencies. I don't beleive in zoos. My dream home includes a year-round garden/greenhouse, an animal sanctuary, a hiking trail, an art studio, pretty lights in the back yard, a fire pit, wisteria, jasmine, lilacs, a fireplace, a library/study with a giant bay window, an eco-friendly rain water collection system for laundry and such, solar panels, a spare room for guests, some goats, some pigs, some cats, some dogs, and perhaps a sheep or two. I suppose it would have to be a large house. I've been called a hippie more than a few times. I love making things. Jewelry, clothing, paintings, etc. The most powerful thing I've learned so far is that I can do absolutely anything I put my mind to. It really isn't just an encouraging phrase muttered to us by our grandparents when we find ourselves struggling with some mundane task as children. It's the truth. I believe that happiness is almost always a choice. I also beleive that this first entry may have run away with itself and I should save some thoughts for my next rambling blog post. But this is a good preface. 

Nice to meet you. I'm Chrissy.