Old McCloud Had a Farm

I play Farmville.

There, I said it.

Not only do I play it, but I LIKE it. I will open it up and check on my crops. I get excited about leveling up and having something new to plant.

I know.  *hangs head low*

I’m one of “those” people.

I have my limits, though. I will NOT pay actual human money to buy Farmville cash.

But dammit, when I see someone’s Facebook update that they have a mystery egg and would I like to hatch it?

YES. YES. I must have that chicken! Please! Share with me your eggs!

And there is something so satisfying about harvesting those crops when they are ripe and ready. And those perfect little squares of land arranged in a symmetrical, organized fashion?

And I was wondering if I should move to the farm in Virginia. Ha. I’m a natural. Right?

Shameful secrets.

I have to go. My cows need milkin,’  and my pigs need “trufflin.”

Advertisements

Irresponsible Bloggers

I know, I know. I have been just downright delinquent about updating this blog.

Like all 8 of you are shaking your heads at me.

It’s just that- my life is static now. Boring and static. Insert Downy anti-static joke here.

There are big life changes coming up and I don’t know where to begin. It involves moving back to Virginia, living in the most beautiful place imaginable, and doing a complete 180 in terms of a career.

But Cristin, that sounds just peachy!

Yeah, but it’s scary. It’s big and scary and gives me insomnia.

I don’t really know how to say the following without sounding like a complete asshole.

My brother has money.

A lot.

He has earned it. He invented computer software, lived in Silicon Valley for awhile, and it was bought by “The Man.” There’s a lot more to that story but I am not at liberty to discuss.  He still works for a well known company. I imagine he has a silo of gold coin like Scrooge McDuck and he goes swimming through it at his leisure.

He’s ten years older than me and technically my half-brother (long story) but he and his darling, wonderful wife, who I adore, want to help me.

I don’t mean help, like write me a check. Because, while that sounds nice,  it doesn’t really help me in the long run.

 I mean help, like have me live with them on their estate and farm (yes, it is an estate) and help with sister in law’s business. It is so generous of them to ask me. I am so humbled. But…

It’s scary.

It would be like starting over. And that’s like admitting what I’ve done didn’t work.

 And really, it DIDN’T work.

So…lots to think about.

And I think the Pioneer Woman has the “city girl lives on a farm and blogs” dynamic down already. And my photographs would look pretty amateur compared to hers.

But I do love the mountains of Virginia.

And chickens.

You Know What’s Embarrassing?

I will tell you.

In the grocery store today I had my choice between two checkout lanes. One had 2 people in line but the super fast teenage boy checker. The other, one person in line but the teenage girl who picks up products as she’s scanning them, reads the labels and makes very strange small talk. Ex. from the other week, “A girl in my high school had a baby in the bathroom today.” Oh, really? That’s nice, can you please stop inspecting my bag of provolone cheese? It’s artisan, I know!

So as I had already started to pull my cart into the girl’s lane, I had a change of heart and decided that it would be smarter to go in the other line with the teenage boy.  While negotiating the path with my unwieldy, lummox of a cart, it’s wheel got stuck on a round rack (the kind that turns) of assorted candy. I didn’t realize the wheel was stuck and yanked so hard, I took the whole rack down, with 14,000 bags of candy that then lay sprawled all over the floor.

Um, oops.

I was so humiliated. That awful kind of embarrassing that takes a second to really sink in. Did that really just happen? Yeah.

 Thankfully, a nice employee came and assured me it was fine and put it back.

Teenage girl stands and gawks, chewing her gum.

End scene.

I can’t help but think at least I didn’t crash into it and fall down like Mary Katherine Gallagher.

SuperStaaaaah!

Doxycycline Doldrums

I have a serious case of the Doldrums. Acute doldrums.

It’s all because of this damn pill that should be curing my Rocky Mountain Fever but is making me sick as a dog. A dog infected with ticks that have Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

Anyone who has ever been on a long-term course of antibiotics knows what I’m talking about. Everything feels “off.”

My stomach is constantly gurgling and sputtering. The food I eat becomes a molten pool of lava, bubbling around the bottom of my volcano stomach. Pssssssssssshhh. fart.

If I don’t take the pill on a full stomach, it will all come back up in exactly 50 minutes.

Funny, the thought of eating makes me want to barf but I have to eat to take the pill.

I had gone 20 months without vomiting.  I was trying to beat Jerry Seinfeld’s record of 14 years. Remember the episode where they’re waiting in the bakery for the babka and he eats that black and white cookie? 

I wasn’t even close.

I’m eating so much yogurt that for the first time in my life there are NO expired yogurt containers in my fridge. I gave up buying the 6 packs and fun, exotic flavors and just bought the Stonyfield Plain quart. That is so boring.

I thought I could eat Taco Bell tonight.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

Can I please point out that they are building a new Taco Bell across the street from me. This is bad news. And no one wants to eat that fresco shit. I need a 5 layer burrito!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be curled up on the couch praying that the gastrointestinal gods are pleased with my offerings and will leave me alone.

Click to see. “Look to the cookie!”

The Armpit Vagine

Pronounced vah-jheen. Makes it fancy.

So, apparently I am willing to discuss anything on this blog. 

Please tell me I am not the only person in the world who notices the unsightly, delightfully inappropriate phenomena that is:  THE ARMPIT VAGINA.

Yes, I am going there. I am SO going there. And here we are.

No, Cristin, you are the only one. You are a pervert. A dirty, sicko, pervert!

Am I?

Come on. It’s staring us in the face.

I notice it mostly on paparazzi pics of actors and models. Take this lovely actress, who most of us would recognize but whose face I have cropped to protect her delicate modesty. Exhibit V:

My blog.  Bringing awareness to global crises.

You’re welcome.

You do the joke!

P.S.  Found a couple more examples. I cropped these pics as well. (Because these celebrities would just DIE if they knew!)

Oh, dear.

EEEEk! The horror!

(runs away screaming.)

Quandary

Wondering why my Flickr photos won’t show up on my home page. They all have that awful red X in the photo’s box.

This is why I have no business having a blog.

I checked my Flickr settings. All my pics should be public and visible.

But, NO.

In the meantime, here is what is happening in my head:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLHQ6hNu4Oc

Thumby

Ok, I found a picture of my defective thumbs. Pay no attention to the super cute puppy hogging the camera. 

Duncan the Schnoodle. Who loved everyone, regardless of their inferior thumbs.

 

Look closer. CLOSER. 

Chicago Champagne Thumb

There it is. Behold! The elusive, tricksy hammer thumb! 

My special ed thumbs are also double jointed. 

Funny, the rest of my fingers do not match my thumbs. In fact they are surprisingly thin, despite the “fullness” of the rest of my body. I can’t imagine what the photographer at my wedding will have to do to hide my thumbs from the classic wedding band photo of the couple’s hands. But I guess I should worry about finding a husband first. 

"Thumbs" McCloud

  

I tried to look at this picture of myself closely, but the thumbs had not yet developed to their full potential.  

 

Can I say thumbs anymore in this post? 

This is officially the dumbest blog ever.