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    But when you mix it with the organic lowfat milk, can you really taste a difference?

    June 6, 2007

    I’m sitting at my breakfast table/dining room table/didn’t someone buy this for a desk-table, drinking a White Russian.  I have just gotten off the phone with my 2 year old son who was singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the 7th inning stretch.  Feel free to look at the time stamp again…  He was cracked out on peanuts, popcorn, cotton candy, cracker jacks, hot dogs and soda.  I fear he may need blood replacement therapy to totally detox. 

    Back to the White Russian.  As I sit here sipping my white russian (which, if I may say, is so very 1980’s/Vegas blackjack table-ish/maybe-it’s-the-horrifying-1980’s-borders-in-every-room-of-my-house), I am reminded of my White Russian.

    Dmitri.

    My sisters, as they read this, will give a collective sigh.  If you could hear them in their respective living rooms as they read this post, you would overhear, “I loved Dmitri.”  “He would have made the perfect nanny.” Or the every popular, “Boy, that Dmitri, he sure was a pip.” Not spoken in a he’s-better-than-Derek kinda way but more in a didn’t-Kristen-date-the-most-hilarious-people(other-than-that-asshole-who-threw-out-her-baby-Jesus) kinda way. 
     
    Dmitri was an island bartender.  How can you beat a man who does your laundry?  He was one of the Two Russians on the entire island.  They were together, the Two Russians.  There were rumors of jumping ship in the Panama Canal and trekking across South America.  Who knows?  My money is still on KGB plants in the Caribbean.

    As I poured my Stoli Vanillin into my cup tonight, all I could hear was Dima’s voice in the back of my head…

    “Kres-tin, they use Stoli in Russia for jet fuel.  For God’s sake, drink Grey Goose if you want decent vodka.”  

    I shall now return to my small, small world that is decidedly NOT a Caribbean island with 365 days a year of sun.

     

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    So now you can sue me for all my bad advice

    October 31, 2006

    Today was a very big day here at Chateau Cookie.  Today I was sworn in as an attorney.  Sure I showed up 3 hours early, I had forgotten to register, gave a wrong bar admission number so they had difficulty verifying me, realized when I sat down with my “peers” that I was wearing a hot pink maternity sweater to the swearing in ceremony of the most CONSERVATIVE court in the nation–where gray is the new black, and then had my name presented for admission by the dean of THE WRONG LAW SCHOOL.  Not only did the wrong dean of the wrong law school present me for admission, it took me 15 seconds to register that the wrong dean had read my name. 

    Why did it take me 15 seconds to realize that my name had been called (other than the fact that the law school was alphabetically before mine, I didn’t go there and certainly wasn’t expecting them to claim me)?  It took me 15 seconds to realize this because the whitest white dean  in all of America managed to mispronounce the most English/white name in all over America–all 3 names.  First, middle and last.  Kristen was Keee-ir-ston.  My middle name is one syllable and he didn’t even get that right.  It’s a fruit of the SPIRIT, for God’s sake.  My last name sounded Middle Eastern.  I sat there shocked.  Now what?  There is no way in hell I was standing up on the opposite side of the auditorium where my lastest in Motherhood Maternity fashion would be evident to the Judges presiding over the ceremony.

    You are thinking (I know you are)–so why didn’t you just take your sweater off?  Well, that’s because I couldn’t find my plain black shirt to wear underneath when I was rushing out the door 5 hours too early this morning so I put this on underneath. 

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    It’s easier to just blame it on their Myers Briggs letters

    September 3, 2006

    You ever know one of those people who, when you offer a hand because you really want to offer a hand, they look at you and tell you very politely that your hand isn’t up to their standards, but then you turn around and suddenly they have taken your hand and now you have a leg missing too?  And then, because your hand and leg are missing and it is causing some problems, you decide to sell a kidney?  And your only stipulation is that the person purchasing the kidney give you the small amount of money to pay for the equipment for the surgery and then they will get a kidney for practically free?  And then the same person that took your arm and leg comes back and said that they want a kidney, but not the one you offered.  No, the other one.  And that they were going to perform the surgery themselves with a very expensive piece of equipment that they would purchase themselves.  And that surgery was absolutely, positively, without a doubt going to happen RIGHT NOW because that was the time that works for them (not unlike when they took your arm and your leg)?  So now, after taking your arm and your leg begrudgingly, they are going to get a free kidney.  

    And then there are the people that you offer a hand to and you find yourself years later, overhearing them talk at the table over tea about how your hand is the most AMAZING HAND THEY HAVE EVER SEEN and how your hand can do things that are impossible?  And that they don’t even care that they are talking to the Michelangelos of hands and still they sing your praise?  And you realize that for these people, who never ask for anything, you would give every single limb, because they love your limbs and you love them for loving you?  

    But it is only then, in your moment of insomnia hours later, that you realize that you have been consumed by the people that would rather steal your kidney (despite the fact that everyone who knows you and who has had to listen to you INCESSENTLY BITCH for MONTHS about your kidney dilemma has told you to either say NO or just give the effing kidney and get over it) and you have forgotten that the joy is in the giving and that some people just don’t know how take unless they have taken everything.  And that they DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING and that this is how they have gotten through life this far and that they really don’t mean any harm.  

    And that every once in a while you just need to just be with the person who just KNEW that your hand could take a picture of her like this that would capture her love ….

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    Some days you just have one of those days

    1.  Today I spent the day with some old friends.  I took this amazing picture…

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