Month: February 2016

A national print ad, shot in our house!

~ christine ~ 22 Comments

So last Tuesday five exceptionally gorgeous individuals (and about 15 other producers, creative directors, photographers, and various other professionals) stormed our house to shoot a national print ad campaign for Major Alcohol Brand. (I’m too paranoid to reveal the actual company name, as those involved asked us not to share pictures of the ads on social media prior to the campaign release, obvy, so I’m erring on the side of caution here too.) Continue reading →

That Saturday I creeped myself out

~ christine ~ 3 Comments

A few weeks ago I was home alone Friday through Sunday and managed to totally creep myself out. It was almost as though I’d watched an episode of Criminal Minds all by my lonesome, and it was like the worst episode ever – like the one (or one of the ones?) where the sadistic serial killer is holding his victim in the basement, removing said victim’s organs one by one and selling them on the black market. Or switching his/her organs with those of other victims. Continue reading →

Thoughts; occurrences

~ christine ~ 16 Comments

Oddly enough, I find the shit show that is American politics to be a welcome distraction sometimes. It’s like its own reality show as of late, and it’s relatively non-triggering. (I mean Hillary and Bernie and Ted and Donald aren’t going to be announcing pregnancies any time soon, amiright? Because they’re like 70. Except I guess Ivanka is pregnant with her third child. Can she please step out of the view of the camera lens? For me?) But anyway, on Tuesday night I watched some CNN coverage of the New Hampshire primaries. My favorite part? John Kasich boasting about winning in Dixville Notch, of course. Continue reading →

On simplicity vs. the Frantic Urge to Kill Silence

~ christine ~ 17 Comments

Since Matthew died, I’ve been reminded some people suffer from an affliction called Frantic Urge to Kill Silence (FUKS). A conversation’s taking place, more than four seconds of silence ensue, and BAM – FUKSers’ (not to be confused with fuckers, though I suppose situations exist in which the two come dangerously close to becoming one in the same) heads start spinning. And it’s as if they’re on a merry-go-round. An extremely fast merry-go-round. On a Jamaican playground. Being pushed by a young Usain Bolt. Continue reading →