Jeff likes to taunt me for being a sorority girl and one of his favorite things to do is sing “my name is kristina! my name is kristina!” in a perky girl’s voice. It’ annoying. It’s also scary that he like impersonating a college girl so much.

Ok, so my email address at work, it’s my name. My name@work.com. Very simple. So why do people continuously write to me and say “Hey Christina!”? Seriously, you wrote me, you TYPED my email address, and then you have a spasm when you address the memo and use Ch? I don’t get it.

At the end of my senior year at Stetson, I started getting all these little notes in my mailbox. They were quotes, random thoughts, etc but it didn’t say who it was from. They were on blue and yellows strips of paper, cut really unevenly, and then folded in half and stapled. My name was handwritten on the front and I recognized the handwriting but couldn’t place it to anyone. I asked around for awhile after that, but never found out who the mystery person was…until now. I think I may have figured it out. My brother is doing some investigative reporting for me and it looks like the three year mystery may be solved.

I’m pretty sure The Rack is screwing everyone on their alcohol. Or maybe just me. I was there on Sat night, to cheer on Jen in her pole dancing competition - the prize being Stones tickets. Sadly, some drunkard won them instead and when the host asked her what she thought of her prize she said “I win something? what?” in the most slurred voice you can imagine. You can just imagine the disgusted look on Jen’s face, she actually wanted to see the show. The point is that this girl was drunk and I was not. I had my usual rum and cokes, I had freaking five of them. And nothing. Not really intoxicated at all. Normally I have three and I’m wasted. Perhaps they were saving the good stuff for the competitors?

Last night I watched “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” with Robyn. Good movie, good times. I decided to bring along my rum and coke to her apt, for the movie going experience. I had two glasses, and by the third sip I wasn’t tasting a thing. By the end of the film, I was in drunk speed mode, where you have one idea in your mind and you just have to do it right then. The idea? To take Toby on a walk. So I basically ran out of her apt, she must have thought me insane (or, rightly, drunk) and ran upstairs to get his leash. We went outside, where I wandered around the parking lot for half an hour, gabbing on the phone, and stopping every few feet to pass out on the sidewalk. Thank god the cars blocked everyone’s view, I looked ridiculous. Back upstairs, I caught Nate off guard by collapsing ontop of him, as he was trying to play his new Madden game. Somehow, I can’t quite explain it because the details are hazy, I knocked the controller out of his hands, it fell to the ground and then I landed on it and crushed it. Well, not to pieces or anything, but now all of the players permanently run left. It’s a problem.

Lately, reading beth’s blog has become an exercise in decoding. She’s saying something to someone, if I could just piece together the puzzle I’d feel a lot better. I’ve gotten as far as knowing it doesn’t refer to me….I hope.

Nate decided to stay in New York, so on Sunday night I drove back to Boston (with the infamous barking Toby). I am normally boastful about my skills while driving in the rain, something I learned as a Floridian, but I do have to say that I was tested that night. It was a freakishly intense storm, a lot of wind and rain and lightning, and I was intimidated enough to go below 60 (which made Nate happy). Sadly, his grandfather died on Monday night. I made the voyage back to NY last night - a much calmer drive, even Toby wasn’t being a bitch.

Being here reminds me of my own grandfather’s death. Talking to his grandmother last night, I could only think of my own and how she reacted at the time. Unlike Nate, my grandfather’s death was unexpected. He had an aneurysm on a Friday night and my father left the next morning to see him, but he didn’t tell us what really happened. He said that my grandpa was going in for surgery and made it seem like a safe and normal procedure. Actually, I don’t even know if he went into that much detail because I wasn’t around when he left…..which leads me to how I found out.

Like most weekends, I was at Megan’s house. I used to live at her place during high school. On this particular Saturday, we were breaking into an abandoned neighbor’s garage; we were working on a project for photography and there were a bunch of dusty antiques in there I remembered being hot a sweaty when we arrived back to her place, it was the end of April in Florida. My brother called and asked if I was coming home. When I asked him why, he got pissed (not at me) saying “god, I thought mom already told you.” I asked what, and he replied “granddaddy died, I thought she told you dammit. I’m coming over to get you.” I remember being in denial at the time, saying that he was wrong, that she never told me anything like that. And the next thing I can remember is freaking out about my photography project, I just had to get it done that week, I explained exasperatedly to Megan. You could tell she felt horrible about the whole thing, she told me not to worry about it, that she and my friends would turn something in for me.

The drive up to Dothan was pretty quiet. My brothers and I reminisced about him, quoting his most memorably sayings, trying to find something happy to focus on. Seeing my grandma when we finally arrived, that was the toughest part. She met us at the door, opened the screen, and with tears in her eyes said “he loved you all so much.” That did it, all three of us burst into tears, I think it was the first time it had really hit us.

I remember standing over his open casket at the viewing, with my cousin Dave. We both noticed how it looked like he was breathing, something about how it can seem that way because we are slightly moving as we breathe.

One of the tackiest things I have ever witnessed occured at the cemetary. My mother, who is a model for all things wrong to do in every situation, decided this was a perfect opportunity to take some pictures. When else would we have the opportunity to gather so many relatives in one place?? Yes, I am serious. Right now, in my closet, there is a box of matte pictures from a sunny day at the cemetary. Everyone is playing along, smiling (notice that my mom didn’t have the balls to get my dad or grandma in any of them….or maybe we stopped her, I can’t remember). I dont’ think I’ve ever looked so disgusted. Or pale. The one worthwhile photo from that day is of Dave, standing in front of the casket. It was taken from a distance. On one hand, I’m sad that we interrupted upon a very private moment. But I am glad that I have evidence that something normal and sensitive and classy took place next to the godawful mess my mother created.

They replaced the door in my office and now it has a frosted window; everyone hates it. They feel uncomfortable that they can’t see into it, they get nervous. It’s even worse than having a door with no window at all, they claim.
For me, though, the door represents my ongoing battle with my thighs. Yes, you heard me. Everytime I’m walking down the hall towards the office, all I can see is my hazy relflection in the pane. I can see the outline of my body and it’s very obvious that my thighs are overtaking the universe. NO, that is not a hyperbole. However, on certain days I feel like it’s not that bad, some outfits look better than others. And that is how I have come to judge my days now, through a frosted looking glass.