health or horror hair

what physical attribute do women stress over the most? face? body? hair? i will admit, i have a sort of obsession with my hair. it requires constant thought. how will i wear it, when will i wash it, color it, cut it.

in my adult life i’ve been just as obsessed with but less motivated to care for my body (read shape, weight and dress size) through exercise. to my credit i have slowly but surely improved my diet, now eating like an adult instead of a 5 year old. but exercising regularly (read sweating) has not been a desire and dare i say a priority.

yes, i am one of those people that put her hair before her health. very much in denial about how much physical activity i actually need to be in shape, i’ve often chosen to have my hair look nice rather than work up a sweat and burn calories. my reasoning (i will refrain from calling this an excuse because i think it is a legitimate claim) goes beyond simply being lazy. it’s more like choosing between the lesser of two evils and focusing on the most efficient way to feel good about yourself.

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chicken marsala

greetings krisirisi readers! welcome to my first recipe post. these will be rather unconventional in style. i don’t really like to measure things and i combine different recipes i find online to fit my needs. so no 2 cups of this and tablespoon of that.

in my attempt to expand my horizons and try new things, i decided to cook a new dish this evening. chicken marsala. i’ve had it at restaurants but never attempted to make it myself. not a big mushroom person, i tend to think of them as a fungus. but i realized that when i have had them they taste alright and i haven’t gotten sick, so why not?

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fbi inquest into fast food corporations

my latest “Top 5” facebook quiz got me thinking about my old stomping grounds back in north carolina. i chose miami subs as my #1 fast food joint. the pink flamingo provided a rare interaction for me – a reciprocal relationship. i gave them money, they gave me weight…

but miami subs was also the scene of one of my most memorable moments in north cack.(cue sankofa)

woooo. i can’t type for laughing, but here it goes…

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be mine, valentine pt. 2

this story kind of goes down as one of those, live, learn, reflect… then slap your former self periods of life. based on what i experienced i could make negative generalizations about the men who are/do the following: cancers (june to be more exact), 6’4″, have non-gender specific first names, have first names as last names, are only children, tell jokes, call me by my government name, dream (too) big…

but i won’t.
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c.r.e.a.m.

published today, but written last night

i said this wouldn’t be a daily account of my life. good thing i’m editor and chief because this post is based on something that happened to me today.

sooooo… this morning i went into work late. i had to wait on the super to turn the gas on and light the pilot in the stove. this was an extreme inconvenience for a sleepy grouchy krisirisi, but it did give me a chance to check a few things online (well, check the stats of the blog really), blend a dime size amount of foundation and apply some mascara before leaving. i planned to get drinks after work with a friend. a little makeup would complement my freshly washed, but not quite styled, hair.

my office is in a rather highly trafficked area. to get to the elevator you have to wade through lots of people. i do this swiftly and with great precision as many of these people are slow poke tourists or au pairs stuck with snotty nosed toddlers that can barely walk, and i am an impatient “new yorker”.

i passed a man wearing blue construction worker clothes. he had a hospital mask around his neck, but not covering his mouth. as he passed me he said “good morning beautiful”, or something to that effect. i was caught off guard, resulting in a smile. i looked back and he said something else. then i heard him say “you got 15?”. at this point i probably should have done what i usually do – ignore. but i looked back again with hesitation and that was all the invitation he needed.

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