(Or “Things you’d know if you called your mother more often.”)
Hi there; I’m Kris. I’m a 39-year-old single woman living and avoiding her neighbors in the nation’s capital. This? This is where I write. I started blogging in 2005 in what was the adolescence of online writing. My first site amassed 700 posts and 19,000 comments in her short seven years. I grew tired, however, of living as two people: one, as the professional who used semi-colons correctly and convinced you she was the most vanilla woman in the room; two, the online persona who wrote sans restraint and convinced you she was significantly cooler than in reality. As any episode of Dateline NBC illustrates, it is exhausting to maintain two separate identities. So as I neared my 39th birthday and was laid off, allowing me a few days to breathe deeply, I knew it was time to make a change. Finally – and most welcomely – here we are. This time, there will be only one of me.
A little about your guide:
The beginning. My dear father died in 2008, but not before bestowing upon me a dry sense of humor and a love for college football. My mother lives a few towns and one state away, but she fears the confusion of driving in the city, preventing unannounced visits. I love her dearly. We like to meet regularly for lunch at Taco Bell, which is odd, given that she takes a limo to most events with friends and wears hosiery to Trader Joe’s. She still lectures me on leaving the house without proper insulation and calls me each time we are under a severe weather watch. That last part makes me feel ridiculously loved.
I’m from New Jersey. I am loyal to my motherland and to this day have never heard a native call it “Joisey.” I don’t know Tony Soprano, although I knew guys who looked like him, and no, I do not drive an IROC. I do wish I owned a diner. My sister still lives in New Jersey, fighting the good fight against the astringent cold and the prevailing belief that Manhattan is the center of the universe. She is one of the most generous people on the planet, and she looks out for me as you might expect a sibling seven-years-your-senior would. Which is to say she is now infinitely more caring than she was that night in the mid-1970s when she locked me in the sump pump room. Bygones.
Loves. I am a classic introvert who loves people. I love talking to people in random airports, pretending I’m interested in conversations the guys from work are having about grilling technique and debating the worst aspects of speed dating with the girls. And then I like to bolt the door, turn the lights out and put the world on hibernate until the morning. This is likely why I skipped your happy hour.
I love ampersands, Diet Coke, all media related to true crime (other than the Tallahassee news), large sporting events that do not involve the killing of humans or other animals, that Twilight Zone with Burgess Meredith, kind, honest men and sharp wit. My greatest dreams are to own my own fountain soda machine, open a no-kill animal shelter and write something besides my thesis that requires a binding. Not in that particular order.
Passions. I love to travel even more than I love Diet Coke. I grew up living and traveling overseas, mostly throughout Europe, and am open to any new passport stamp (provided I’ve got the immunizations for it). While in my youth I traveled extensively east of the East Coast, I had not been west of Indiana before I was 25. I did what I could to rectify that in my early thirties. I’m particularly partial to cities and the open water and am a fierce defender of my window seat. I hardly feel as grown up as when I order a cocktail on planes; I hardly feel as childlike as when I wake up in a spectacular new destination. I have never flown in first class, but have wandered my way up to make friends on a few occasions. There is nothing more spectacular than waking up in a new and welcomed destination.
I am a committed animal welfare and shelter adoption advocate. I made the blessed mistake of viewing Food, Inc. in April 2010, and immediately became a 99.9 percent vegetarian. I will occasionally eat meat or fish if I know its name and have a conversation with its mother beforehand. I miss meat so much, however, that I sometimes dream about it. I might be picturing your head as a steak right now. I fail to see the humor in doing all that we can to ensure animals live and die with dignity, but acknowledge that there are those who would not see the point in saving a bee (dying on the asphalt in my parking space) and a spider (winelogged in my glass of pinot grigio) as I did this week.
I’m a dog person who owns cats. Bug is my three-legged devil, a silver tabby who made it to DC via the mean streets of Tallahassee. Cricket is his younger, obese adopted sister. She has all her legs, even if her belly at times appears to eclipse them, and her completeness is not nearly as interesting to spring on sober people at a party. I adore my animals, as in completely adore them, but stop short of donning cat vests or Bug bjorns. Just short.
Kids. I don’t want human children but think it’s nice that you have yours. No, I will not change my mind. And no, I don’t think I’m skirting God’s purpose for me. No, I do not worry about dying alone, or who will take care of me in my old age, because I’m pretty sure your children will. Yes, I do think wee booties are insanely cute.
Peeves. I hate intolerance, when people are oblivious to social cues, my cell phone, playing group sports and women who converse naked in locker rooms. I hate Seinfeld, but most people get over it. I’m wary of people who do not understand watermarks and adults who drink milk with dinner. Language is important. Related: you probably aren’t using “in the weeds” right and no one will tell you.
Have a question about my hair color or want to pay me to travel the world and write about it? Use the contact link above or find me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/thewino.