Getting All Bent Into Shape

There have been all sorts of sicknesses in my office the last few weeks. I'm pretty sure I've been exposed to the cold virus, whatever new strain exists of swine flu, and the black plague. I mentioned this when I went to the chiropractor yesterday, and he told me it was a smart move on my part to come visit him. Getting your spine aligned helps your immune system, he assured me.

Well, smart me was pretty happy that less-smart-me had scheduled the appointment a month earlier.

Here's what he didn't tell me: your emotions live in your spine. And when you get your vertebrae crackling and lined up, you're releasing all sorts of feelings into your nerves and blood and whatnot -- and who knows how much build up is in there.

If you're a robot it's no big deal. In fact, if you're a robot you probably don't even need a chiropractor and you're totally getting gypped. But if you're a female, you are in TROUBLE.

It's like when you have plaque built up in your veins and it releases and clogs an artery and you have a heart attack and die. Kind of. And I think you get plaque in your veins but that might only be your teeth, but you get the idea -- this is all very sciencey so trust me on it.

So after getting my back adjusted yesterday, I felt awesome... for half an hour. My hips were aligned -- better for swaying, I say -- my back was straight-ish, and my shoulders weren't hunched into some painful-looking posture.

Then: everyone was terrible and mean to me. Even the people who were nice were only that way because they were afraid of being honest about their repulsion of me and that made me want to kick them. When my father offered to give me a cordless drill I assumed it was to write messages in people's car doors who were clearly against me (the offer of the drill was rescinded). The weather was gross on purpose to make me sad and the stores didn't have clothes or shoes I wanted out of spite. SPITE.

Even chocolate was against me, I could tell.

And then I realized: I didn't feel this way before my back was cracked earlier in the day. My agile mind put 2 and 2 together and realized what had happened.



Chiropractors need to come with surgeon general warnings.

What Do You Say to the Most Polite Spammer Ever?

So after my last email to Danijel (read here, here, and here to figure out who this is), I assumed the hint was given and I was off the hook.

Oh no.

Perhaps this guy (woman? I don't have the faintest idea) has caught on and thinks it's hilarious and is trying to play me.

Maybe this is an ingenius and elaborate publicity hoax for someone actually selling spandex disco pants -- making this a searched for-term -- or making AdWords money off of this somewhere (yes, seriously, this person might not have anything to do with spandex, a weird fetish site, or American Apparel... it might just be someone gaming Google).

But honestly? I think this must be the most polite spammer ever. Take a look at the email I received after sending my "photographs."

"Photographs" like this one.

Hy Christina!

its good to haer again from you! grat, they are intressting pics,hehe..

your ideas are good ,but at first i must see what youve done about the real pics in your photoshooting?? i dont know if you wear black disco pants, and how look your poses???

it would be very fiendly if you can send me these on my mail, and than we can look further, to arrange you all you need, ok? so, dear Christina hope you can send me the pics as soon as possible.. Thank you!!

For next Week i have also a lot to do! Bussines as usuall ;))

That sounds like something I would've heard from a kindly philosophy professor: "Well, I see where you were going with that, and that's a good start, but let's try..."

I had no time to Photoshop my head onto a one-legged stick figure or some other variation, so I didn't respond right away.

So a few days later, this arrived:

Hy Chrsitina!

How are you?

I just also want to ask you if you get my last E-Mail and what do you decide to do about your nice pictures? wanna send them to me??

its important to know for me because i really need a prewiev to plan further..

would be great if you can answer me :)

cheers Danijel!

He's getting impatient now... because it seems I'm wasting his time. Hmm.

I am now taking suggestions. What would you like to see me say to Danijel, the ultra-polite spammer?

Spandex Disco Pants Continues

Sarcasm doesn't translate well, it seems.

Hy there! Thanks for answering!

ok dear Christina,

At first i would say, that you try to make some sample photoshoots in the disco pants and send me these back.

if is than all or right, we look further.. because we do this whit all us participants.

im very sorry about your leg, that must be very hard for you!

i just always cant imagine, how would you look in these situation in these pants? can i also ask you how old are you? its also nice to meet you too!

ok dear Christina, i would be happy if you let me know, when aproximately do you think to start whit do this.

i whish you also all good in this new year and take care...

regards Danijel


That's fine. "ok dear Christina" has a new hobby for 2011, it seems.

Hi, Danijel,

It's so good to hear from you again! I can't wait to take those pictures and send them to you so we can get that formality out of the way! Won't be too much longer -- Thursdays are when the volunteer from Errands for Shut-Ins comes by to take me to the grocery store and to shop for whatever I need, and that's when I'll pick up a pair of disco pants. I had my drivers license taken away after my accident because, being one-footed, I could only step on the gas pedal. I put a sign on my car to warn people that I wasn't going to slow down or yield or stop unless *absolutely* necessary, but someone decided that people can't read or whatever and the signs were a bad idea.

Anyway.

I'm certain I'll look good in the disco pants. I've always had nice legs, and now that I only use one for everything, it's very toned. And without a second leg to distract from that one, everyone will see how good the disco pants look on it! I have a very good feeling about this ad campaign, but who's surprised by that? You and I make a great business team -- seriously going to take the world by storm, Danijel.

One thing to keep in mind is that age is just a number, so don't worry about mine. Besides, with Photoshop, you can totally remove minor wrinkles or fat rolls.

Let me know when I'll need to be in Switzerland. I've started dropping hints to my boyfriend that things might not be working out, so I will need a plane ticket and a place to crash pretty soon.

To the new year!

Christina

Incidentally, I do not recommend trying this at home. Somewhere on the internet, a big red buzzer started flashing and beeping when I responded to the first email, alerting spammers everywhere that my account was in use and opening emails.

Any of you have suggestions as to what afflictions I should contract in time for my next email?

Black Friday Lesson: How to Lose a Finger

I wasn't planning to lose that finger. All I wanted was a few hundred dollars' worth of stuff for $3.97.

But the Black Friday Curse struck, and I'll never be the same.

You've never heard of the Black Friday Curse? Neither have I. I just named it, though, because it obviously exists -- otherwise, how do you explain how this seemingly beautiful post-holiday holiday severed the nerves in my pinky?

It wasn't the long lines or the cold weather. It couldn't have been the 80 lb. box of Oneida dinnerware I carried until all my fingers lost sensation. And I know for a fact that it wasn't the massive amounts of coffee I consumed, even though we know it constricts blood vessels and there are rumors that blood vessels are necessary.

No. The reason I can't feel my pinky finger anymore is the Black Friday Curse. And as I shake my partially numb fist at the heavens, I promise you this:

I will never shop Black Friday again.

At least not more than nine more times... because by then I'll be out of fingers.

The lesson? Fear the curses you don't even know exist, but name them well so the loss of limbs won't be in vain.

Beauty Is Transformative, or, What I Learned From a Recent Zombie Experience

DISCLAIMER: My Twitter followers did not find my tweets about this interesting. HOWEVER, my Facebook pals thought it was hysterical... all that to say, it's kind of a toss-up how you'll feel about this post. You're free to stop reading and I'll forgive you.

Now on to the story...



Two nights ago, I dreamt I was being chased by zombies. Luckily zombies are super slow in more than half the films documenting their existence, so I actually wasn't aware I was being pursued... until I decided to hang out in a dark, Tim Burton-esque meadow. Smart.

Tip for zombie interactions: don't acknowledge them, it only encourages their behavior. Just keep pretending they don't exist.

So I saw a zombie coming up to me. Did I run? Shoot her in the head? Scream for a hero to help me?

No. All my zombie escape training went out the window.

I gave her a makeover.

In dreams, it's amazing how much you can carry without even knowing it. I gave this girl a whole new look -- everything from a blow-out to new makeup.

(The blow-out actually turned her hair pink and then it melted -- I'm not sure we're calling that a success.)

BUT.

She wasn't a zombie anymore!

What does this dream mean? It means that beauty is transformative. That unexpected love can heal what nothing else can help.

Way to go, subconscious!

Now, if I can only figure out why the makeover turned her from zombie into a talking coffee mug...

We Almost Froze to Death in a Blizzard

I promised you video, and it only took a month for me to follow through.

But so worth it.

Here, you will see me talk to you in a pompous way with my weirdly moving lips (seriously, everyone else learned to talk and look normal at the same time... but not me). You will hear poor Laura's lament about our misadventure. And you will learn the dark secrets of Yellowstone.

How can you not watch?



We survived, but JUST BARELY.

Christina Cross Country

WELL.

This was supposed to be updated long before now, but my new camera -- the one with a YouTube sticker on the front -- apparently creates HUGE files when taking video. Not all that YouTube friendly, despite the misleading sticker. I tried uploading yesterday for an HOUR, and only got 45% of the way through a short clip.

So.

I feel angry (cue the T-Rex stomp), frustrated (do I even *have* two hours to upload a minute-long clip?), and completely unequal to the task of explaining how lovely it was to drive across the country with no real plan.

You know, other than to make it home alive.

On the way, I got sunburned by Lake Michigan...



Met the King of the Corn Palace...



Got stuck in a blizzard in Yellowstone...



And spent time with Laura Lee, who not only helped drive (like when I pulled over and said, "It's too windy! I've driven four miles! It's your turn again!") but also let me drag her everywhere in the name of sightseeing.

If I can ever get the video loaded, you will laugh and weep and experience every human emotion and feel a deeper connection to humanity. In the meantime, you can suffer and thank my stupid camera for it.

A Stranger Dream

Ever have a dream that is so, so real that you wake up still half believing it?

I had one last night. But it was a nightmare. One that I pray will never come to be; it involved so much pain that I don't know I would survive it if I couldn't wake up.

SO, for those about to leave this Depression Alley, never fear. I want to tell you about a more entertaining dream I had last week -- both so you can enjoy the science fiction nature AND to train my brain toward happier (stranger?) thoughts.

===

The house was dark, the only light flickering in from outside the windows. We stayed inside because we thought... or hoped... we were safe.

There were creaks. Huge eyes stared stricken at one another, as we hoped the sounds were out beyond our walls. We whispered conversations, and pretended whispering was normal and that sitting in the dark was normal and that nothing at all was out of the normal.

It started with an orange. It rolled off the counter and hit the floor. As if tied by the same string, our heads whipped around in unison to watch it pick up speed as it rolled down the hallway.

Another orange, and then an apple, rolled off the counter and through the hall, and we knew the house was infected. Jumped off the floor. Someone grabbed a shopping cart and began throwing food into it that we could take with us as we fled.

Electronic humming started low, but grew louder in proportion to our panic. It was as if they knew we were attempting escape, and they'd have nothing of it. Moving grew harder, as the magnetic current, or gravitational pull -- or whatever term they'd used on the newscast -- pulled us strongly toward them. We leaned into our strides toward the door, the biggest one pushing the cart of food. I watched one slide and skid backward -- we couldn't save her, so we tried to move faster so we wouldn't succumb.

The machines. The DVD players, and iPods, and refrigerators, and light switches, and space heaters, and laptops, and irons... they were drawing us in with increasing force. We escaped this home, but would we escape it in the next?

"No Subject"

Take a look at my shapely leg.



Wait, you didn't notice the lovely curve of my calf, did you? What you were probably noticing was the result of intense determination without a lot of physical coordination.

It's a long story, involving my belief that desire + stubbornness + trying really hard = achieving whatever I want (thanks, after school specials for teaching me that falsehood). The story also involves me dropping a motorcycle on my leg.

I was angry with myself for not succeeding in what I wanted to accomplish the very first time (because I am Christina, the empress of awesome), I was irritated with my leg for its multi-colored status (it made swimsuit tryouts less than appealing), and the only way I reaped anything happy out of the situation was by forcing people to look at my calf when they obviously didn't want to (I even emailed pictures to friends, using deceptive email subject lines like, "no subject").

So tell me, when you hit that moment where you can give up or try again, how do you decide which one you'll do? Or do you just make everyone around you miserable with ugly pictures?

The Fallen Hero

The last few days, I've been thinking about a post I wrote a few months back. It was about being the hero or heroine in your own story and life, and I still believe there are a lot of good things about that idea, like taking action and responsibility to make things happen.

But I think there are also some potential pitfalls.

I recently started reading The Hero With a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, which talks about the universal traits of a hero -- the characteristics that show up in every story, regardless of culture, of every man or woman who has been preserved in story. It's fascinating, but I came across something even more interesting:

The Tyrant.

Campbell refers specifically to King Minos, who started his own story as a hero. His people loved him, he won the favor of the gods... and then he started acting in selfishness.

The short version, for those who don't want an instant education in Greek mythology, is that his self-centered living resulted in the Minotaur, a monster that lived in an underground stone maze and was fed human sacrifices. And despite causing the death of countless innocents, King Minos continued to see himself as the hero.

I think that's still true today. People live their stories believing they are heroes, though they act as tyrants.

One way you can identify them is that they don't believe in other stories.

You are cast in their story, the one in which they are good and loved and wonderful even while they cause destruction everywhere. Your lack of faith in the tyrant's heroism might be seen as betrayal or disloyalty. But your choice to live your own story is one that infuriates the tyrant most.

And I think that may be the biggest fault of this fallen, misguided hero... the violence he or she commits in attempting to force one story on all.

As part of our own story and in our own journey, let us be careful in casting people too much in roles they may not want to live out.

Have you been dealing with tyrants, too?

The Accident

A week ago Thursday, I was in a car accident.

Driving home from Seattle, I was taking the exit off I-5 onto Highway 540. If you're familiar with the area, you know that to make that exciting move I had to enter a one-lane tunnel that was engineered to be a downward-sloping blind curve.

It was in the tunnel I saw it -- a crumpled car, crushed against the cement wall. I braked and swerved and managed to avoid the vehicle.

"Thank God," I breathed... just as I was hit from behind by another driver.

The back of the driver's seat thumped my head forward as the sound of shattering lights and crunching metal echoed in the tunnel. I sat stunned for a moment. The driver pulled alongside me.

"Are you okay? Can you move?" he yelled.

I nodded. "I think so!" Realizing that staying still was only going to result in a dangerous pile-up, I motioned that I was going to try driving out of the tunnel. As I did, it hit me:

The tunnel leads to a bridge. The bridge has nowhere to pull over. This guy could easily drive off into the night, and I had no name, insurance policy number, not even his car's tags. There was nothing I could do to keep him from speeding off into the night.

Instead, he drove slowly behind me across the span of the bridge and to the first exit. We exchanged information, and he asked if I knew how to get home. I confessed I didn't know where the next entrance to the highway was, so he looked up directions for me before I drove off.

And then I got pulled over for a broken (let's face it -- smashed to bits) tail light.

I explained to the police officer that it had only been broken for about 15 minutes, and I was on my way home. He was very kind, but still had to run my license. While he was in his car, a truck pulled over in front of me and out stepped my unlikely friend. He walked back to the officer and explained he'd rear ended me.

On his way back to the car, he said he didn't want me to get a ticket on top of getting my car bashed. I thanked him and said I hoped the rest of his night went better, and in an attempt at cheerfulness he said, "It can't really get much worse."

But it could've been. I thought back over all the nights that had been worse than a car accident with no serious injuries. I thought of the inches and fractions of seconds that could've made that night one where someone didn't make it home.

I also thought of all the opportunities that young man had to escape. He had the opportunity to run from his responsibility. He could've chosen to do the wrong thing and thank his stars I didn't have any recourse. Instead, he chose to do the right and good thing, even when it cost him something.

It might not seem like a big deal, but in the past year I've had a lot of people choose easy instead of the hard thing that was right. How the consequences of their choices affected people like me wasn't as important as saving their own skin or priorities or story.

To me, it seemed a given that would happen again.

I am so thankful. Not for the accident itself, of course, but for the reminder that there are good people who see beyond themselves. I thought maybe they'd all disappeared.

I'm glad some are still around.

Christina v. the Universe

Last week, I tried to blog. But then I got tired/busy/insane and didn't. So here's the quick update:

• I had a birthday and I spent part of it at the DMV having infants a full decade younger than me make me feel old and tired. My effort on makeup and hair were pointless by the time I stepped in front of a camera... I looked like an irritated, shiny horse.
• I spent a beautiful sunny day at Pike Place Market with my sister, and then later in the evening we met up with friends. After a few drinks, I demanded chocolate mousse. We tramped around downtown Seattle until we realized there wasn't any... ever again.
  
• I sent my wayward vehicle to the doctor and cheated on it with a rental. It was lovely. I am now a fan of affairs, or at least car affairs. And my car is now okay and I had to take it back into my life (boo).
  
• My friend Amber revealed to me that this website (yes, this one!) is blocked by morality filters, flagging it as "adult in nature." I am flattered.
• "What idiocy can I vanquish today?" I yelled to the universe one morning. The universe yelled back, "None! Because I will overwhelm you with idiots!" Universe: 1, Christina: 0.
• The best hockey game ever. That is all.

There were other things that would shock and horrify you, causing you to exclaim our rallying cry of "too pretty for this!" but the prettiness inside me is wilty right now. I want to take a vacation, but I want it to be to another time in my life, not necessarily another place. Trust me, though, when I say that I'm living through further fodder for this site.

If I can just survive it.

I Got Hit By A Bus

Yesterday, I got hit by a bus.

This is not a metaphor. It's not an exaggeration, tall tale, or even a blatant lie.

It's the truth. And I am too pretty for it.

I was driving in Seattle, on my way home from work. I innocently took a right-hand turn, which caused my lazy car to cough and stall. With the remaining momentum, I strong-armed it to the side of the road and put my flashers on (why yes, I *have* done this before).

Cars zoomed around me, shooting me sympathetic, glad-it-wasn't-me glances. I was just happy I was safe.

That lasted maybe two minutes.

As the bright lights in my rearview mirror alerted me to the bus pulling around the corner, I realized... I was sitting at a bus stop.

And Seattle's buses run on cables.

Ohhhh...kay.

So. I'm fine, my car is okay, and now I have the pleasure of adding one more story to my repertoire. But this means that, at least for awhile, all whining I encounter gets met with, "Oh, yeah? I got hit by a BUS!"

There are perks to having public transportation vehicles plough into you, after all.

Plus, people tell you they're worried you're tweeting from the dead, and that's kind of awesome, too.

Brush With the Underworld

Saturday morning cartoons were the best part of waking up on the weekends when I was little. Now, the best part of waking up on a non-weekday is it being past 5:30 a.m. But in an attempt to recall those golden days of youth, I'll share a Saturday Story.
===

A few years ago, two friends and I went to a local Mexican restaurant for lunch. It was chosen based on location and cheapiness, not on the quality of the food, but it was a good place to catch up in the midst of hectic grad school days.


While we were eating and chatting, we noticed a man in sunglasses and a suit. He walked in, flanked on either side by thug-like friends. The waiters began lining up to talk to him and shake his hand.

"Who is that?" "Why is he so important?"

In the middle of nowhere as we were, it didn't make sense for some dignitary to be around, especially at the dingy Pueblo Viejo. That's when my brilliance struck.

"Guys!" I hissed. "He's probably in the mafia! The MEXICAN mafia!"

"I don't know, that seems a little far-fetched," one friend reasonably said. "Wait, is that the manager coming out to talk to him?"

"Yes!" I whispered furtively. "Because he needs protection!"

Just then, the Mobster walked over to our table. We three froze.

"How's the food, ladies? Is it good?" he jovially called out.

We responded in unison: "Yes, it's great!"

He strolled out with his henchmen, and we stared out the window as he got into an older car with tinted windows.

"Maybe he IS in the mafia!"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, he is. Unless he's like Erik Estrada or something, there's no other explanation."

Just then, a waiter walked by, and one of the other girls nearly grabbed him. "Who was that guy? The one in the suit?"

He looked at us excitedly. "Have you ever seen the TV show, CHiPs?!"

Oh.

I Would Text You Some Love

Aww, you all are so great!

I've been MIA the last few days because I started my new job on Wednesday, and have been busy trying to learn huge yachts of information... and then meeting up with friends after work. This is because 1) they all want to hang out now that I'm working nearby, and 2) they are worried that I will get lost on my way home from work and want to make sure I know where I'm going.

So it was AWESOME to return to this blog and, instead of dead desert with tumbleweeds rolling across the page, see all your encouraging comments. Thank you!

This would be much more impressive if I'd flipped the picture so you could read the text. Now you're going to have to try holding your screen up to a mirror or something.

About the new job: I'm conflicted about how much I should talk about it here. Not because I want to say bad things (I don't!), but because I want to take some time to decide how I'll define boundaries. I did that with my posts about teaching, too.

If you want to know the bare bones, you can get LinkedIn (shameless, but come on... you know you want to be professionally networked to me) and see where I'm working and my job title. To give that skeleton a tiny bit of cartilage, a lot of what I'll do every day involves writing, talking to people, and coming up with (hopefully) good ideas... fun stuff. Stuff I like to do even when I'm not getting paid.

How are all of you doing? Tell me in the comments! I'm trying to get caught up on reading all your blogs/Twitters/novels/etc., but even a teeny update would make me happiest of all Christinas.

Mishmash, Hodgepodge & Tarnation

You wonderful people who have kept coming to read even when I've been less than faithful in my writing? I just want you to know I love you. This post is a giant "THANK YOU," catch-up, and newsy bit.

Ready?

Thanks
First, thank you for reading! Yes, you! Because your comments and Twitter love keep inspiring me -- love it! Second, I have to thank a few people for the blog awards they generously threw my way.


This one came from Nathanael over at This Is How It Feels. Although we've argued over the best future locale for Sara, we're generally blog buddies and this is a huge compliment. Thanks!



I don't think Monique (aka the SurferWife) meant to give me both of these, but I'm the kind of girl who takes advantage of ambiguity and will claim ownership of BOTH. That's actually why she likes me in the first place, I think.

Who gets the next round of these babies? I'm sending all three the way of Sara Spelled Without an H, the Aspiring Fashionista, and Sizzle Says.

Catch-Up
I just wrote a review of soon-to-be published Will Jesus Buy Me a Double-Wide? ('Cause I Need More Room for my Plasma TV) by Karen Spears Zacharias. You can see it over at my other online home, Christina is Online.

Newsy-ness
If you've been following my saga, you know I recently moved to Washington State. Yay! And while I love the carefree lifestyle of unemployment (ha), I'm also happy to say I just accepted a new job! I start on Wednesday, and am looking forward to a new challenge.

What does that mean for this blog?

It will still be here. I will still be here. And I anticipate being able to post more regularly, because I'll have a stable schedule. So don't leave me (please!), because I want to grow old with you. Or... at least keep up the conversation. Okay?

Happy Monday!

I Think I'm A Flamingo

I've always liked the word "quirky."

It sounds fun and much more positive than "weird." And it's younger than "eccentric," which is my eventual life adjective goal.

Today I read a post by Glen Stansberry over at LifeDev.net about embracing the things that make a person unique. I admitted, in the comments and on Twitter, that lately I've been making zombie noises when I get frustrated (so basically a CONSTANT soundtrack of the undead).

And here, I reveal exclusively to you Too Pretty readers that I noticed that when I shower, I turn into a flamingo and insist upon standing on one leg. Sometimes I switch, but never do I have both legs supporting me at once. Safety first? Obviously not.

Another quirk? Taking super cheesy pictures... WHILE STANDING ON ONE LEG!

There is a part of me that does not want to embrace those quirks. Another part of me that sounds a lot like my brain says embracing the weirdness doesn't necessarily entail admitting to it on the internets. So why am I?

Because this is who I am.

And because I once got advice from someone much wiser than me when we spoke about the possibility of my non-acceptance into the doctoral program of my dreams. I explained how I was worried that maybe my area of study didn't fit the "theme" the selection committee had that year, and maybe they'd snicker at such a Scandinavian-named girl coming in wanting to research Jewish visual rhetoric.

"If those things are true, but you were accepted anyway, is that a place where you could thrive?" she asked.

I blinked uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?"

"If their goal is to reproduce scholars similar to themselves, then they will do so and select the candidates they think best suited for that goal. But if they want to invest in students who will go out and find their own unique niches, they will again work to find candidates who are suited to do so. What kind of student and scholar would you prefer to be?"

"Well, obviously the second kind."

"Then whether or not you're accepted, it sounds like it will be the best situation for you."

Which is another way of saying that my quirks not only make it easier to pick me out of a crowd of bland, but they also work as a filter to protect me from people and situations and haircuts that aren't going to help. I just need to love my quirks and let them live in my life.

I guess admitting to a few of them is my first step.
===

I miss you all! So jump into the comments, say hello, and tell me about the quirks you're embracing.

From Ghetto To Granny

Most of the time, I think I'm pretty awesome.

It's taken years of shaking off expectations, the weight of other people's goals, and personal insecurities to have that general attitude. But I like myself, and generally other people do, too.

Sometimes the reasons why *I* like me and *others* like me are different. This story represents one of the latter.

In grad school, I spent a lot of time in the cubicle I was given. It would've been fantastic if I'd spent all that time studying, but much of it was actually invested in grading, venting, and watching YouTube clips from "Teen Witch" and "Music & Lyrics."

But there was also a lot of singing and dancing, at least when Meng and I were in the office together. We'd take turns playing songs (or letting Jason serenade us with TLC's "Scrubs"), but one day I opted for something different.

For Meng's entertainment, I belted out Blaque's "She Ain't Got the Boom Like I Do" at the top of my lungs.


No one else was around, so I did a few gyrations to emphasize the classy lyrics... and amidst her laughter, I heard a cough.

"Um... Ms. Olson?"

How in the world did someone find his way through the cubicle jungle without a sound?

Thank goodness for teacher glasses and pulled-back hair, because it sped the transformation from ghetto to granny.

Love you, local radio station, for reminding me today of this precious memory...

Have you ever tried to regain your composure and professionalism in a split second? Tell me more, puh-lease.

Top 10 Too Pretty Posts of 2009

You know I'm not a resolutions girl, but I am all for Best Of compilations. So that's what we're doing today: celebrating the year's best Too Pretty posts.


What has been popular in 2009 around here? According to Google Analytics...

Why Am I Too Pretty For This? It's a good question.

A Week of Slight Improvements Apparently, I'm not the only one who avoids anything BUT baby steps.

3 Things You Can Do Today to Communicate Better If you're a regular reader, you know I like the number three.

What Daydreams Revealed It wasn't quite what I expected.

More Than a Haircut Donating my locks wasn't what I expected.

The Power of Hair We women like our hair, but I decided to get rid of mine.

PhD in Procrastinating I doubt I'm the only one with this degree.

45 Things That Don't Make Me Gnash My Teeth With a word like "gnash" in the title, how could this not be a popular post?

The Cranky Professor In which I experience a professional dumping.

I'm the Heroine of This Story A story of hardship that ends with the brave Christina eating a donut.

I'll be honest, I'm surprised by some of these Top Tenners (really, my amazing video didn't make it??). What did you enjoy this year? And what would you like to see increase in 2010?

Be Really Good At Being Really Bad

"If you can't be good at something, Christina, you should be really good at being bad at it."

I took my mother's advice to heart.

One time, I knew my tires were low and was hoping to get someone to put air in them for me. So I drove to an auto supply store, and in a wide-eyed, damsel-in-distress fashion, asked where the tire gauges would be and what they looked like.


The guy behind the counter could see he was going to have to be a hero, so he guided me to the tire gauges, explained why I didn't need the most expensive one they carried, and showed me how it worked. After I paid for it, he then demonstrated -- on each of my four tires -- how to test the air pressure.

"So," I asked cautiously, "How does one get air in the tires once you know they're low?"

My new friend explained that he couldn't leave the shop to fill my tires at the gas station across the street, but gave detailed instructions. He hesitated, then asked how far I planned to drive that day.

"Why?"

"Because you have a bald tire. And I mean, it's really bad. I'd be worried that it might blow if you get on the freeway."

Oh, dear. That was a slight problem. It got dealt with, but here are the truths I think this story demonstrates:

If you don't know something, ask. I really didn't know where the tire gauges were, and I didn't know how to use them.

Make it clear that you know someone is doing you a good turn. It made that guy's afternoon that he got to save the day for pretty little me. And I batted my eyes, hung on his every word, and thanked him for his help to let him know his expertise and assistance were appreciated.

Sometimes, you get more than you expected... and that's a good thing. People like to help when help is appreciated. Not only did this guy make sure I bought the most reasonably priced tire gauge, make sure I understood how it worked, and then check all my tires, but he threw in an extra bonus when he told me I was gambling with my life every time I zoomed up to 70 on the interstate.

We both benefited and felt happy about our interaction. All because I was really good at being really bad at something.