Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

selfy-stuff

Live From the Icebox

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I’ve convinced my inner OCD Godzilla that there’s no harm in randomly surfing through some NaBloPoMo blogs as long as I track them meticulously via a spreadsheet. He, in turn, will not consume my soul with the power of his Atomic Breath.

I’m realizing that Fussy, much like the Dooce, almighty queen of the internet, is a blogger with a small child. The difference would seem to be that Dooce was already in-progress on queendom when she had her baby (the adorable Leta), wheras Fussy began with precocious Jackson already in place.

In any event, young married women with adorable children (Alpha Moms? I’m not clear on what that means, exactly) seem to be Fussy’s primary demographic, so i have no doubt i’ll be encountering lots of cute little babies in my web surfing, which is fine, because i completely understand that while babies are cute they also scream indiscriminantly when you are recording a new song, and i am still way too self-involved to want to be responsible any sort of creature that involves my having to record more takes of anything. This also extends to birds and yappy dogs.

What’s a little disconcerting is that a lot of these people are totally my peers, except they spend their money on diapers and care about other people while i’m still spending money on concert tickets and am completely self-involved. It sortof freaks me out. I mean, i can withstand, like, ten whole minutes of pictures of cute babies, but the lack of self-involvement is a little disturbing. At least Fussy and Dooce are both still obsessed with themseves. And, they both still enjoy a strong cocktail.
Oh, right, websites. The first NaBloPoMo blog i happened upon is called Rudderless, and Loving It. Here i thought the title was just punny and figurative but – NAY – it is about a family who lives on a boat in the Florida keys (to which my response was OMG, they have internet on boats!!!). They link to quite possibly the cutest halloween picture of all time.

When i was younger my mom seemed to primarily date men who owned boats, and even though i could never fit my entire comic book collection onto one i really liked going for a ride because boats just make so much more sense than cars, and because i liked parking it in open water and then going underneath to take a nap. Also, the first time i rode on a boat it was with a funny older lady who had a cat and an inexaustible supply of oreo cookies, whereas the first memory i have of a car involves my mother locking a tiny, toddler-sized me in our golden Nova at a gas station.
And people wonder why i don’t have my driver’s license. Oh, right, topic. Back to the topic.
Pam Rentz blogs at You’re Doing It Wrong; anyone who ends a technical blog-related lament with the sentence “No doubt a bottle of red wine will be involved” is awesome. Also, apparently Lucy Lawless remade herself into some sort of blues-belting rock animal via a television show called Celebrity Duets? I never really watched Xena, but there is definitely something inherently awesome about Lucy that just got awesomer now that i know she’s an aspiring blues singer trapped inside the body of a Glamazon.

I just wandered downstairs and i think it is literally warmer in the refridgerator than in the rest of the kitchen. Gingerbread Latte often refers to herself in third-person plural and uses [redacted] in her blog, which i love. Gimme Sanity is stunningly gorgeous, lives in NYC, has an adorable baby, is a serious knitter and student, and runs marathons. She has pretty much won life.

Okay, i’ve been sitting on this post for an hour now, i need to just let it go. And maybe build a small fire out in the hallway.

Bleary-but-Wide Eyed

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It is in the general vicinity of freezing outside, and the incursion of said temperature into our house is the only thing keeping me awake and alert at the moment. And, in my least wakeful state the only two things i can really manage are playing guitar and blogging, and it’s way too cold to play guitar.
Elise went off to have breakfast at Ikea and shopping in other heated buildings, leaving me to suffer alone from my refusal to turn on the heat before Thanksgiving. Because, underneath this 25-yr-old wrapper i am clearly a stingy old lady living from pension check to pension check.
I want to start winging my way around the NaBloPoMo sites in order to try to catch a little of every writer, but Eden over at Fussy is not done updating the big list of urls (at least, i don’t think she is, because i’m not on it yet, which is OKAY), and the OCD Godzilla inside me says that’d if i start surfing now i’d just have to start over later when the rest of the participants were added. I’ll do whatever you say, OCD Godzilla, just please don’t step on my cold little house or make me talk in overdubbed English.
In the meantime, NaBloPoMoer Lane has created a NaBloPoMo randomizer that will satisfy your endless curiosity about what people would write about every day anyhow.
When i first followed that link i thought, hmm, Lane, that couldn’t be the Lane who i used to read on Trianide, who i loved because she had a webcam but wasn’t a whore, who took amazing photos, and who loved Fiona Apple, could it? This Lane is living in a completely different hemisphere. Surely not the same Lane. Well, from a quick glance at Trianide it turns out it that it is the same Lane! NaBloPoMo: Bringing people together.

Does it count as using the heat if i go downstairs and turn on the oven to cook something but then huddle in front of it to absorb its warmth? It seems like a suitably in-character thing to do if i’m going to keep acting like a batty, frugal, old lady with OCD. And possibly dementia.

Endless Intake (or, Thoughts on Identity)

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I often move through my life feeling as though I have no walls – no resistance to the personalities and pop culture surrounding me.

For years I absorbed the opinions and styles of everything and everything else so much so that I had trouble getting a handle on who I was underneath it all. My opinions and reactions were just a collection of easily identified demographic influences – everything to do with what I consumed or the image that others projected on me, and very little to do with me.

I often manifested this uncertainty of self by acting out – needing to grow out my hair, or to wear flashy clothes and makeup, or to be the loudest most-opinionated person in a room. I still like doing all three of those things from time to time, but now I see that – taken as a whole – they were just my way of trying to create a tangible, distinguishable identity. No one could ignore or forget the long-haired boy in body glitter and black vinyl arguing with you at the top of his lungs.

My outgrowth of that phase might be why explain why I have given up radio and television altogether. People often express shock and horror at the fact that I don’t watch television at all; it’s as if they cannot comprehend even the idea of it. Too many people define themselves by the television show they spend the most time watching, and as a minor-league obsessive-compulsive and a major-league fan I was primary amongst that demographic.

After over two years of media deprivation and gainful employment I feel like I have a better handle on “me” than ever. I’ve found enough of my own opinions, tastes, and stories that I no longer need them to be sublimated by the tightly written copy of others.

However, aside from locking myself in my room I still haven’t found a way to resist the influence of people, and how they make me feel so fuzzy around the edges as their traits osmose into me. I pick up other people’s handwriting as if I am made of silly putty, the curves and splines of my letters easily influenced. My manner and style of speech is just is easily swayed.

I like blogging because it is a way of taking back me. I’ve always been the most comfortable with the written word, and keeping a written archive of my experiences and feelings allows me to re-experience – re-absorb – the aspects of me that matter the most. It makes it easier to get back in character because it represents the most crystalline, most consistent version of me.

I might not ever have a defense against the barrage of media and opinions that greets me each day as I set foot on my front step, but I now also have something much more indelible at my center. And that’s a good feeling.

Who Am I, Anyhow?

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With this month being my blog reboot, I thought an appropriate second post would be something resembling my bio.

I am a blogger. My blog is called Crushing Krisis because I crush-on or am-crushed-by anything and everything, and because my longtime internet handle is “krisis.”

I am a singer-songwriter often too shy or too perfectionist to allow anyone to hear my work.

I am an only child, which sometimes represents itself via my stubborn – often luddite – attitude towards change, as well as my frequent joining and discarding of various recreational activities that involve other people.

I am a Magna Cum Laude graduate of Drexel University. While I obtained my degree I worked one and a half years as a full time, fully paid intern as part of Drexel’s Co-Op program.

I am a Communications Representative at a major Philadelphia company by day, having given up a dream of Journalism in favor of making large(r) sums of money.

I am surrounded by a disproportionately talented and liberal group of friends, the vast majority of whom were made through my (often abortive) involvement with different theatre and music groups in college.

I am obsessed with improving the little things that impact my self-perception. I spend every day obsessing over and trying to improve my budget, my writing, my diet, and my musical skills.

I am a believer in karma – i think if you give good you will always get better.

I am currently the happiest and healthiest i have been in my entire life.

Gimme a Head With Hair

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I am emerging from my ugly phase.

Last trip to the hairdresser – just for a trim – my shampooer warned me. “You’re going to go through an ugly phase,” she matter-of-facted at me, before admonishing, “and don’t go cutting it off just because you’re in the ugly phase.”

Because, cutting it off means my hair has won our little battle.

The ugly was seductively convincing. Hair in the eyes. Messing with complexion. Head is too fat now to look good with long hair, anyhow.

The litany was in full-effect last week, and it became clear I would have to beat my hair into submission before it would end. So, I did something unprecedented (which cutting it off wouldn’t be, if we recall the Mohawk and other such endeavors). I walked into the bathroom, lined up my styling products, and took out Elise’s curling iron, hairdryer, and an array of brushes. An hour later, I emerged with feathered hair.

You have to understand that – long or short – hairstyling with anything other than a hand and some mousse is against my personal aesthetic. In high school I grew my hair into a pony-tail to avoid styling, and subsequently chopped it all off for the same reason. Every haircut I’ve had has been motivated by wanting to have to style less.

But, desperate times call for the most desperate of measures, and so style I did. My hair is perhaps a wee long for framing my face with feathers, so I wound up slightly more Farah Fawcett than John Travolta from Kotter. Before bed I carefully wrapped my work in a series of bandannas to preserve it for the night, and the next day I sported stylish (though slightly flattened) feathering at work. And, I didn’t feel ugly!

I have yet to reattain the epitome of my prettiness, but I have escaped the seductive “cut it off” allure of the uglies to inch ever closer to unspeakably desirable rock star look i’m cultivating.