Kristabella: Full of Snark Since 1977

Posted By Kristabella on March 15, 2007

Finally! An EL story!

So I was standing on the platform at the Belmont station this morning, waiting for to transfer (yes I know I just typed “for to”) to the Red Line.

I stand in the same spot every day. I know where to stand to get in the car that lets me off right by the stairwell at the Grand stop. That stairwell is also by the recycling newspaper receptacle. I’m still a California tree hugger at heart. I can’t stand throwing newspapers away.

So anyway, back to the Belmont stop. I’m standing at my spot right at the top of the stairwell. I’m jammed in there, because there are a ton of people waiting. As per usual.

So this woman says “excuse me” and squeezes past, in front of me, to move further down the platform. (Don’t even get me started on the fact that she could have gone BEHIND the horde of people. Which also wouldn’t have put her inches away from falling to her death on the tracks. But, people are dum.)

Right after that, this dude does the same thing. He says “excuse me” and I step to the side (like my leg was broken. Shakin’ and twistin’, kinda like I was smokin’. Crazy wack funky. “You look like MC Hammer on crack, Humpty!”) (I’m going to have that song in my head all day now.) As much as I can without falling down the fucking stairs.

Right as he’s squeezing in between me and the 800 other people on the platform, he stops, turns and says to me (wait for it, wait for it.)

“Do you know what that means?”

Seriously?

So I say (because it was early and my snark level was at a low) “I moved over. Jesus Christ!”

At this point, this dude, who is five foot nothing, stops, turns and then thinks better of it. Since I’ve got about 8 inches on him. And he’s standing awfully close to the edge of the platform. Inches from the tracks.

And I just don’t know what I’m capable of at 8 AM when I haven’t had any coffee yet.

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Posted By Kristabella on March 14, 2007

Last Friday night I was out at a birthday party for Miss Jones. We were talking about my time at the 49ers and she mentioned that there has to be so many stories from my time in Santa Clara that would be great blog material.

So it got me to thinking. Because working for an NFL team, that should be true. Right? I mean I spent 6 years of my life surrounded by football players and coaches. There should be some crazy ass stories. And yet? I can’t remember any.

I had good times working there. I really did. My last year was miserable. But that was because I wanted out. It had nothing to do with anyone else. (Except maybe Fitz. And the 2-14 team.) (No, just Fitz.) I have some really great friends from there that I’m still close with. So seriously, there should be some crazy-ass stories.

So last night while I was running, I started trying to think of all the craziness that I’m sure encompassed my life. But when I’m running, all I’m thinking about is how much longer I have to go and left, right, left, right, etc. so that I don’t fall on my face at the corner of Irving and Addison.

And then I start thinking, “man, I think I miss the sucky ass commute to my old job for just THAT reason.” I was so used to zoning out on the 90-minute commute home that I came up with great stuff. Pure genius. And now, I read on the train. And most of my thoughts are of trying to keep my balance so that when the train moves, I don’t tumble into the people in front of me. Unless it’s some cute guy. Which, it never is.

So I enlisted some help this afternoon from The Jens for some stories. She was there almost as long as I was. Surely there had to be some stories. Right?

Most of what we remembered (we b0th are in research studies to figure out who has the earliest onset of Alzheimer’s. Oh, and we both drink a lot. I’m not saying they are related or anything) was from the charity golf tournaments we held every year. Which, maybe not so surprisingly, included us working outside, on a golf course. Drinking beer. Free beer!

I think I worked three golf tournaments. I missed the last one or two because if we wanted to volunteer to help out a company-sponsored event, we had to take a fucking PTO day. Therefore, beer is not free then. I’d rather spend my PTO day drinking with fun people. Not Debye.

And by working, I mean drinking. Usually we helped with check in. And then on the course, we were to work the “money holes.” Those were the ones where the rich fat cats would pony up some dough on certain holes to win something. Like a car. Like the hole-in-one hole. Or the closest to the pin. (That one sucked, by the way. You had to MEASURE.) (Naturally, I usually ended up at the hole-in-one hole. You either did it or you didn’t. No measuring. And more importantly, no getting up.)

So we’d collect the money, watch them all fail and wait for the next five-some to come through. (A foursome plus a “celebrity,” who usually ended up being some player they cut about two weeks later.) And continue to drink our beer.

(I think they might have caught on to my whole excuse to get out of the office and drink free beer and that’s why I didn’t work the last one or two tournaments.)

There was the year that mid-way through the day, we ran out of beer. So I volunteered to go back down to the clubhouse and load us up. (I come prepared with a backpack for just these occasions. And maybe for sunblock. But mostly, for beer.) So I went to the beer cooler and just started filling up my bag with Coors Light after Coors Light after Coors Light. (There were three of us!) As I’m doing this, I happen to look up and see our Pro Personnel Director, Bill McPherson, standing there watching me. Just laughing his head off. He called me “Coors Light” for about four years, until he retired. (Side note, his retirement party was the Friday before I got shitcanned. Mac is the greatest man you’ll ever meet.)

Or there was the year of the closest to the pin hole. Where I had to measure. And get off of my ass, which was sitting in the golf cart, to work. That was the year, as I was sitting there, minding my own business, frying the skin on the tops of my legs (no sunblock that year, apparently), that a certain bust of a first-round draft pick shanked his ball so bad off the tee, it bounced off the roof of the golf cart. RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD! I really hope Reggie McGrew has gotten better. At golf. He sucks at football. God save the Queen if he hasn’t.

Or the year this guy was part of one of the foursomes. And wasn’t even the celebrity. Just knew some fat cat who was a 49ers Foundation supporter. He was not so friendly. And this was pre-24 fame. And pre-Allstate commercials. So I said to him, I say “Fuck you JoBoo, I do it myself.”

There was one constant in all these events (besides the mass consumption of beer), it was the prize. The prize on the “money holes” was always a car. See, so you had to give us money to win. You had to be in it to win it and all that who hah. Although, it’s not hard to ask a millionaire for a few bucks for the chance to win a car. (Like they need a new car. And I ain’t talking no new Toyota Corolla or anything. We’re talking Beemers and Mercedes. Bitches.) But to sway them into entering, I had one surefire way of always getting them interested. I’d say “it’s a chick magnet, fellas.” And then I’d pretend to get pulled in by the force of it all and get stuck to the car. “See?”

Cracked my ass up every time.

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Posted By Kristabella on March 13, 2007

So last night I went out after work for some (seven) drinks (teen) with some co-workers. One of our people from Seattle was in town for some conference. Or something. I don’t even know who that dude is. Although, unfortunately, after work meant almost 7 PM, so it was a long day. I don’t like getting home after 9 PM and then having to eat dinner. Nothin’ like going to bed with a belly full of stroganoff. Nothing good comes from that, except a restless night. (Right, like I said NOTHING GOOD.) (And NO, I’m not cranky from lack of sleep. Don’t mention it again or I’ll stab you with a popsicle stick.) (Mmmmm……popsicles.)

Anyway, so we were sharing roller skating/roller blading stories (no idea how that topic got raised. Totally wasn’t from my recent outing to the roller rink.) And the guy I work with was sharing a horror story from when he was about 15 and was in Seattle visiting his aunt and uncle. So his uncle lived in this nice gated community with lots of hills (if you haven’t ever been to Seattle, that bitch (and I mean that in the nicest way possible) has more hills than San Francisco.) So he decided he’d blade (that’s what the kids are calling it) down the hill to get the mail. As he’s bladin’ (I actually typed baldin’, which is funnier) he hits a rough spot and is just about to eat it. So instead of face planting it, he basically uses his leg, his BARE leg, to slow himself down before he tumbles down the hill on to the freeway below. Needless to say, he was really banged up. Like most of the asphalt was embedded into his skin. He was like all hamburger.

At this point of the story he’s all “so my uncle played for the Seahawks, so he took me to the training facility to get it cleaned up by the team doctor.”

ME: Your uncle played for the Seahawks? Really?

HIM: (All nonchalantly. Like all our uncles are ex-NFLers) Yeah.

ME: What position?

HIM: Quarterback.

ME (Why am I even going on with this? You’re an f’ing idiot if you don’t know where this is going!) Like a back-up or something? (Because I was pretty sure it wasn’t like a famous person or anything. I’m such an asshole.)

HIM: No, a starter. (See, asshole.)

ME: (My fucking God! Just tell me who he was. What’s the big fucking secret?) Who was it?

HIM: Dave Krieg

ME: No. Fucking. Way.

I freaked out like his uncle was freakin’ (insert famous QB here that either I haven’t met or who I don’t hate and never want to meet anyway) (I’m talking about you Marino and Elway) (But would still totally giggle and turn a lovely shade of RED if I did meet them.)

(Seriously, I’ve met a lot – Joe Montana, Steve Young, Jeff Garcia, Rick Mirer (LOVED him), Steve Stenstrom (who?), Phil Simms, Boomer Esiason (have his autograph. My pen died as he was signing. Am so classy), Troy Aikman (oh MAN is he sex-eeeee), Gio Carmazzi (yes, that’s a real QB), Tim Rattay (damn the 49ers had a lot of QBs in 6 seasons), Cade McNown (awwww, Cadey Poo), Ken Dorsey, Y.A. Tittle (who, pre-49ers, thought his name was Ya, like rhymes with Ma), Joe Theismann, Steve Bono…)

And then the subject changed. Because really, what do I know about Dave Krieg except that he was on the Seahawks forever? And apparently the Bears, according to Wikipedia. (Also according to Wikipedia, he was sometimes called the Patron Saint of Football Folly because he had a bad case of fumbilitis. Yeah, that would be why I said nothing more than “WHAT?!?!? YOUR UNCLE IS DAVE KRIEG?!?!? THE DAVE KRIEG?!?!? Um, cool.)

And then I promptly went into a discussion where I defended Dusty Baker and his managerial skills with the Cubs. And about how Cubs fans only know the Dusty with the Cubs (who pretty much sucked, but not totally his fault. But a lot his fault.) and I know Dusty from his SF days (direct quote) and was talking about what a great job he did there. (Not really.) Just remembering it makes me throw up a little in my mouth. In Dusty, We No Trusty.

But yet, I still giggled and turned red. 

See? I’m an asshat.

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Posted By Kristabella on March 11, 2007

For those of you who didn’t know, today marked the first day of Daylight Savings Time. And if you didn’t know, you’ve been running an hour late all day.

One of our consultants has been working like 80-hour weeks on the DST project for a certain mobile phone maker, who apparently forgot that they moved Daylight Savings up 3 weeks. I was happy to see this morning that my phone switched.

I don’t like the first few days of DST. I mean, I’m stoked that they moved it up a few weeks in March. I like that it’s light out later. It’s just depressing leaving work when it’s dark. Sunshine just makes people happier. But right now it’s 10 PM, but my body thinks it is 9 PM, so it doesn’t really want to go to bed soon. But I have to make it. And it’s not going to want to wake up an hour earlier, either. It always takes a few days to work itself out, but I still always have a hard time adjusting. Maybe I should just drink some wine. Then I’ll be sleepy.

The weather has been beautiful this weekend. It was almost 60 on Saturday and Sunday. It really feels like spring. Which means baseball. Which means afternoons at Wrigley. So that + sunshine = happy days.

I was watching Match Game on Saturday afternoon. There wasn’t much else on. (I love how I say that like I didn’t search through the f’ing guide and choose to watch it. I love the show. And Richard Dawson.) I’m not all that interested in college hoops until the tourney. That happens when your alma mater won like 2 conference games this year. They’re bad.

Anyway, I was watching and this male contestant was telling everyone what he did for a living. And he’s all “up until a few weeks ago, I was a football player.” And Gene Rayburn was all “Did you get injured?” Dude was all “no, they just thought I wasn’t good enough. And now I coach.”

And then Gene’s all “Well, welcome to Patty Patterson and Brian Billick!” I was SHOCKED! I mean, he looked the exact same, but I just wasn’t expecting it. It was hilarious. I can’t believe he was on The Match Game. And I can’t believe he wasn’t on the DVD set. I bet he’s trying to make sure that episode is never aired.

Oh, and he was probably one of the worst players ever. He didn’t match a single celebrity. And my guy Richard Dawson was totally ripping on him. He said something like like “Football player, failed. Game show contestant, failed.” Too funny.

I saw a commercial this weekend for a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. Like not cartoon. But more 3-D Shrek-like. And I’m totally going to see it. I watched that show every morning before I went to high school. Heroes in a half-shell. Turtle power.

And finally, I just wanted to give a birthday shout out to Julie, whose birthday is on Monday. And she’s busy celebrating by drinking beer in the sun at spring training. Happy birthday, blee-ach! We’re supposed to get snow this week.

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Posted By Kristabella on March 8, 2007

Dudes. Seriously. I’ve lost all creative juices. Not even a drop. I can’t think of anything to write about. I’m sure I could reach into the recesses of my mind and pull something out (that might be quite scary. Never mind). But seriously, I got nothing. And apparently I’m going to start a new blog where I use seriously in every sentence. (Great. Another place where I can write a bunch of crap.)

(I probably already do that, so seriously, this isn’t even post-worthy) I suck. To the extreme. (That just made me think of “to the extreme I rock the mic like a vandal, light up the stage I wax a chump like a candle.”) (Dance!) 

(This is what we’ve come to?)

So last week in his blog, Senor Beavis made some comment about people writing about their personal lives and I’m pretty sure he made some biting comment after that. And I commented something about “Ouch, asshole. O’Doyle rules!” But then he was all “um, I wasn’t calling you out, dumbass. It’s like some sort of inside joke not meant to make you feel like an asshole. But while we’re on the subject…” OK, fine, he didn’t say the last part. (OK, fine! He might have not said any of that.) But seriously (bing!) (that’s my new measure of how many fucking times I use that word. Which I totally was using before Shonda Rhimes and her little TV show.) I’m starting to think I need to have more planned out in my life. Because this blog? Has gone way the fuck down hill in the last few months.

I admit, it’s been hard with the new job. I, like, actually have to work and I don’t have time to write at work. And since I actually work, I work more than 8 hours a day, which means less time to be a Blogosaurus. And you all may think this writing B.S. is easy peezy, but this shit is hard. As you can see, I could write dumb shit about a new T-shirt or running, but WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO READ THAT?

And yes, I don’t write for oodles and oodles of readers. (Which is a big fucking lie because I WANT oodles and oodles of readers because then some smart, smart person will give me a book deal. You’re on watch readers! Spread the mother-fucking word!) (Except not to people, like, that I work with because, well, um, yeah.) (Did I just actually try and pass off “because, well, um, yeah” as a fucking sentence? See? ALL. DOWN. HILL.) But I would like to say that my readers are reading because they enjoy it. Rather than the fact that they are related to me or are close friends and feel the need to comment. (Please, don’t tell me if that’s the reason why you’re reading. Am too fragile to handle that. Just. Keep. Commenting.)

But I enjoy writing. I think I’m damn good at it. I can be, on occasion, quite witty. But seriously (bing!) I really do like it. It’s why I started this here piece of work. It took me a long time to realize the fact that I am good at this. I’m not one to toot my own horn. And I’ve never really received consistent feedback about my writing. And if you haven’t figured out, I’m an insecure asshole and I need people to tell me “Way to go!” and “‘Atta Boy!” and “Gold star to you, freak!” I’ve never gotten that with my writing. At the Niners, there were always limited edits to my pieces, but I think I always wanted Kirk to be all “You rock! I will bow in your presence. You are master writer. We are but peons.” Oh, and he was supposed to jump out of his chair and tell me this. Duh.

But it never happened. And I just went on with my days, thinking I was mediocre. Because I hadn’t been told differently.

But then something happened a few years ago. I got fired. No. Well, kind of. I gained some confidence. I didn’t care what other people thought. (Does this come with age? I don’t know.) I was comfortable enough with my talents. And I knew I was good. I didn’t need the constant reinforcement. It’s what got me to this point to where I was comfortable with sharing my writing with the WHOLE WIDE WORLD. Maybe it had to do with moving out of the world where most everyone writes (PR) and moving into the corporate world, where, Holy Fuck! there are so many people who can’t write. Every email I get each day reminds me how talented I am. Which, for a crazy person, is kinda nice.

Now, I’m still insecure about it. I’m human for fuck’s sake. I like to hear that you like my blog. And seriously (bing!) I’m happy with having 69 readers for the rest of time because I know most of those 69 readers and I know you like reading, whether you comment or not. (Come on lurkers. I know you’re out there.) But would I like to have one of the top blogs out there? Holy fuckity fuck yeah! YEAH! Because, you know what? You don’t start a blog if you’re not interested in being out there. You know full well that when you decide to start a blog, you’re going to put yourself out into that whole crazy-as-fuck internet world. And you’re OK with it. Because we all want to be semi-famous. Because why the hell else would we read US Weekly people?

My point? I’m not sure. I guess I was just using this as an online forum to tell you my thoughts. And to let you know that I’m my harshest critic and I expect damn near perfection for this. And when I do write crap, it bothers me. But I do it because I’m still that little baby that doesn’t want to lose readers and hope that you’ll stick with me. Through all the crap. Or at least just frickin’ click on this site, even if you don’t read, because traffic = good. And now, you have just received an insight into my messed up brain. Wipe your feet on the way out.

I’m still not going to tell the people I work with. Yet. Even with the fact that I’m a shameless self-promoter. Which means, if you want to get invited to my fun work outings, you have to keep yo’ damn mouth shut, bitches!

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