Gangsta Cashmere

Surviving your Office Christmas party

2011-12-21T11:49:00.000-08:00

Do:
Wear very festive “holiday” gear. From some reason all company execs LOVE ugly green and red sweaters with bedazzled reindeers and corny little elves. It makes you look “safe” and “nice.” Matching X-mas tree earrings optional.

Don’t:
Wear your “I’ve been a naughty girl this year…spank me hard” tee shirt with ripped up fishnets and red leather hooker boots. For some reason, this makes you look like a “whore.” Go figure.

Do:
Enjoy a nice holiday toast with upper management. A nice classy glass of wine will do. But just one. No need to fuel the already rampant rumors about your budding alcohol addiction. [Remember that time you came in drunk with the same clothes on as the day before…yes yes…and so do they.]

Don’t: Take multiple “lemon drop” shots at the free bar. Don’t shout out “one more…what the fuck its free isn’t it!!!!!” as you down yet 2 more straight shots of vodka.
And if you do “over do it” DO NOT throw up in front of the CEO before dinner even arrives. Make sure you can AT LEAST make it through the meal. Then you can always blame your “illness” on food poisoning. And not just being a drunkard. (really happened to me. )

Do:
Smile at everyone. Not only will this make you look like you’re actually having a good time, but it will stop all those annoying “oooooh somebody is a grinch this year!!” comments. God.

Don’t: Sulk in a corner listening to your iPod, secretly plotting to call in a false bomb threat just to get the hell out of there, periodically giving dirty looks to the over zealous receptionist singing Christmas carols. I guarantee you’ll look suspicious and your emails will start to be monitored that following day.

Do: Take frequent “smoke” breaks outside. Even if you’re never smoked a cigarette in your life. This is an easy way to kill 10-15 minutes from all the “holiday cheer”. It’ll give you some fresh air, and hopefully erase the awful stench that ass kissing and insincere compliments can leave behind.

Don’t: Force yourself to actually sit and enjoy every moment of this thing. Bathrooms are there for a reason people. I don’t care if everyone startsto think you have a bladder control issue. DO NOT ATTEMPT to actually sit through this thing without loosing your mind. Its just impossible.

Do: Share amusing little “holiday” stories with your co-workers. Maybe that time you were 10 and got that Barbie bicycle you’d been begging for all year.

Don’t: Tell horribly personal stories about your crack head aunt stealing silver ornaments from the tree and trying to pawn them downtown. Or that time your drunk uncle felt you up under the mistle-toe. It’s just not right. And most people will just think you’re weird and run far away. Not quite the image you’re trying to uphold.

Do: Participate in that horribly annoying “secret Santa” gift exchange you’re forced to do every year. You never know…you might end up actually getting something decent. And if not, whatever you get, can always be re-gifted. And really, what is better than that? Nothing.

Don’t: Don’t however, give a gag gift. We know this secret Santa Is a joke. We know that you have no idea who “Julie Kwan” in accounting is. We know that you don’t have time to try and look around and find some non-descript, un-offensive, office-friendly gift. But for the love of God….nobody wants to be sitting at their office dinner and open up a dildo. Even though [and I think you’ll agree with me here] that would be the funniest shit I’ve ever seen in life. But as everyone gasps, and Miss Kwan is staring at the 11 inch penis with horror in her eyes, and you’re the only one laughing, your secret will be up. And no doubt your job will be up too.

The most important thing to remember at this year’s office Christmas party….is that you hate these people. Just because its Christmas doesn’t mean they automatically get a “free pass” from your annoyance. It just means that now you’re drunk and it’s after hours and you might feel more “free” to cuss a bitch out. PLEASE DON’T. The key word in “office Christmas party” is “office.” No matter what you do , you will be judged upon your actions the next day at work. And your name will be office gossip for future generations of disgruntled employees. Keep a low profile. Smile, but not too much. Drink but not too much. Eat but not too much. Be yourself…but [as always ] not too much.

Happy Fucking Holidays.

If a man really wants you. In real life.

2011-12-21T11:15:00.001-08:00

I'm tired of all this fuck ass advice on men that keeps getting forwarded, and posted and tagged. Bunch of single women commenting with their "mmmmhmm that's right" church fan amen blessings.
In real life. In real relationships. These cliche's don't matter. In real love, all the rules are broken, re-written, revised. "Boundaries" and "non-negotiables" are mixed up, crossed and ignored every day.
Because real love is insane. You accept things you never thought you would. You do things you'd never thought you'd do. You think with your heart. For good, bad, or indifferent.
And if you're playing by a set of rules, or if you have any "strategies" on how to get, keep, or make a man love you, then you're not using your heart in full. Love is random, wild and pure. Stop over thinking shit and just go with it.
With all that being said, here is my list on what men do if they really want you. Jokingly of course. This is all a joke, so I couldn't actually make a serious list.

1. They will eat your dry ass chicken you worked hard all night making. And will swallow it down with 36 glasses of red kool-aid, before ever thinking about telling you it was nasty. And when you fall asleep, you will quietly hear them placing a Chinese take out order. But you won't be offended.

2. They will be the one to get all the necessary "post-coitus" clean up materials. Whether it be sock, paper towel, moist towelette or wash cloth. You should never leave the bed with any foreign secretions of any type on your body.

3. They will call. Fuck all this texting/facebooking/twitter jazz. Fuck all this "men don't like to use the phone" tomfoolery. They will call. And call back. And follow that up with another call. And if they're not, well. Sorry boo.

4. They will leave work to come and help you with any car trouble you may have. At the very least, they will send a tow truck for you. They will not ask you to check shit. They will not ask you to call your friends. They will handle it. Even if they don't know shit about cars. Men like to handle shit.

5. They will unclog toilets, drains, and take out garbage. I know its not 1953 and the rules have changed and shit, but....9 out of 10 times, it was his fault shit got clogged up anyhow, so... that's my rule on that lol.

6. They will be nice to your alcoholic mom. Your crazy friends. Your weird co-workers. They will not love the people you love, but they will never try to tell you to cut anyone off. No questions asked.

7. They will leave all cell phones and computers unlocked and password free. A real woman wouldn't check, and a real man wouldn't hide. Besides which, if you're doing some foul shit, and don't know how to cover your ass by now, you need to be caught.

8. They will spoon. Every man hates to spoon. But they will spoon. At least long enough until you fall asleep and they can use some advanced yoga type maneuvers to get out of the position without waking you.

9. They will always know where you are in any public setting. And will be jealous if some other man speaks to you. You'll be annoyed. There may be words exchanged. But in your heart you'll smile a little bit knowing he still fears you might be tempted by another penis. Its nice to still feel sexy and wanted, especially in a room full of new pussy.

10. No matter how rhythmless/bungled/totally unsexy your lap dances are, he will never laugh. He may cut shit short to get to The Sex, but he'll appreciate your effort. And all effort you put forth in the bed. Outfits, lingerie, oils and all kinds of weird shit you've heard from your friends that you'd like to experiment on him with...he'll be down.

The Virgin Suicides

2011-10-29T22:20:00.001-07:00

I lost my virginity my senior year of high school. In my mind, it was to my cute little quarterback boyfriend after prom. It was awkward and sweet and funny and we went on to go to college together and get married and have kids. In my mind.
In reality I was about 180lbs, had probably 4 actual friends and a newly found obsession with the internet.
I never went to my prom. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t get married or go to college. I guess, this is where it all began.
Not to say I was a loser all of my high school career. I was pretty popular up until junior year. And then it just came all crashing down. Depression. Weight gain. Puberty hit me hard. I suppose in retrospect I was always very pretty. But there were two things I wasn’t. White and skinny. And those were the only two things I ever wanted to be. So in a sense, I spent most of my senior year hating myself, just for being myself. Twisted.
It wasn’t just being white and skinny. It was the whole lifestyle that went with it. The parents that had fun 4th of July bbq’s at our beach house. The golden retriever running to the door to meet me when I got home from school. Being able to saunter into homeroom wearing nothing but a soccer hoodie and some jeans, and look like I just stepped off of the cover of Vogue. Being white and skinny gave you this sense of just not giving a fuck. You were entitled to the greatest things life had to offer and you knew it. Since the day you were born you were told that this world was yours for the taking. So you walked around knowing there was a college fund set up for you. And you bitched how you didn’t want to go to college but instead go to LA to be an extra in the next Tom Cruise movie.
You pulled up in the school parking lot in a car your parents bought, and bitched about how it didn’t have a sunroof.
You were homecoming queen. And bitched the whole night that some freshman had the same dress as you.
You had all these normal teenage problems.
And I was invisible. Wearing a size 14. Short hair. Brown skin. DD bra that I had no idea what to do with.
I spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Talking about it. Writing about it. Reading about it.Like most teenagers I guess. Except, I looked at it as something I wasn’t really worthy of. Something I would never achieve. Because I didn’t look like anyone I saw having sex. There was no porn with fat people. (By the way, who would have known there’s actually a whole section devoted just to that. Age brings wisdom eh ? lol)
So I looked at my virginity as some mark. Something I just needed to get rid of. Something I just wanted over and done with.
And there was Maurice. He was old, fat, Italian and creepy. Even his name was gross. Everything about him screamed pedophile. There was not one attractive quality to him.
We chatted. He made me mixed tapes. I remember there was a lot of Beatles on it. Some John Mellancamp. Don Henley. Songs that when I hear them today, instantly make me want to vomit. I hate him not only for taking my virginity, but for making me hate Norwegian Wood. Such a damned good song.
I made up this elaborate lie to my parents that I was going to AC with a friend for the weekend, and her dad was coming to pick me up. And he arrived. All 386 pounds of him. Thick glasses. Thinning hair. And I got in the car and we went off to Atlantic City.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. I remember he have me a gold necklace I later pawned. I remember the comforter on the bed was super scratchy. He went down to gamble a lot, but I had to wait up in the room because I wasn’t 18 yet. I felt lonely. I felt bored. I remember the sound of the slot machines.
The actually “sex” I blacked out from my memory. I remember soaking in a tub afterwards though. In retrospect, a therapist could tell me how I was raped. I could spend hundreds of dollars to relive that night and try and uncover some forgotten memory. Some feeling. That could probably explain/excuse some of the mistakes with men I’d make later on in life. But I’ve never been big on excuses. I’ve always been a very intelligent girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew he was gross. I knew I was 17. I knew I was lying. And I knew I was a virgin. And in my small little mind, the ends justified the means.
I went to school that Monday and pretended nothing happened.
Nothing felt different.
The skinny white girls were preparing for a pep rally. That I wouldn’t attend.
They were having sex with their boyfriends. And although I know had “done it”, I still didn’t feel like them. I still didn’t feel anything close to what they felt.
I still walked the halls alone. Ate alone. Had a pretty shitty last few months actually.
And now, at 30, with a daughter of my own, I would slap the shit out of 17 year old me.
I would do anything in this life to take that year back. Send out my college applications, instead of signing up for chat rooms. Stop worrying about being popular, and study harder. Focus on my writing. Focus on my family. Focus on the life that was passing me by.
But,at 17, you know everything.

::The Reluctant Housewife::

2011-09-07T09:16:00.000-07:00

Im writing todays post from the little refugee camp I've built for myself on my boyfriends bed. Using a shitty lap top, while my brand new computer sits at home untouched. Staring at pictures of his family and his clothes and his life, as my living room goes unlived in. Untouched. My life, seemingly frozen in time. Drinking Miller Lite, and eating a Veggie Burger. To watch my weight of course, which is escalating at dangerous levels. Like an obese woman ordering a Big Mac with a Diet Coke. I play these little mind games with myself.

I used to get so much confidence from my work. Negotiating deals. Traveling. Meetings. Even when I had a bad day, and I would bitch, and go home and drink wine and lay on my couch, I still felt proud.
Now I just lay on the couch and drink wine.

The pride I get now comes from cooking a good dinner. Having good sex. Keeping a clean house. Spending hours and hours, doing my hair, make-up, buying new clothes. Just so I can trick myself into believing I'm pretty and happy and unfazed by this whole "lay off" thing. While inside I'm silently screaming for help. Tracking down old co-workers, stalking ex-bosses, emailing every single person I've ever met in my whole life, to try and find a place for me just to work at. Just to wake up at 7 am, wear a cute little outfit, get some coffee, and be stuck in traffic listening to bad morning radio shows, like the American Dream that was promised to me.

I am a house wife. the girl who once spray painted her name on an L train platform at 4am wearing a pair of borrowed Gucci heels one size too big and a tough ass leather jacket, is now, a housewife. Ive watched every single episode of every single reality show on tv. And a new found addiction to Criminal Minds.
And I love it. And I hate it. All that the same time.

Its more than just loosing a job. These past 3 months have been about finding myself. Seperate from being someone's "employee". Without the dependancy of my fat ass bi-weekly paychecks. Without the security that I am the "good person" label you recieve, by simiply working. Making peace with the fact that I'm not 21 anymore. I can't just move to Brooklyn and work at a shitty office being a receptionist and living in a rat infested basement apartment, pretending that's "real life."
My real life is now bills, children, relationships, family. And I need to focus on finding a way to put my own selfish desire to the side, and do what's right for the ones that love me right now.

So, as my meat is in the fridge marinating, and my monster.com emails pile up in my inbox, I sit here with my memories of a life past, and the possibility of a new life ahead.

I've decided to go to school to finally do what I was supposed to do over 10 years ago. Be an English teacher. My dream. Since I was 5 really. That got put aside for a little bit.

But until that day comes. Im still here. A refugee in my own life. Hiding under plaid blankets and golf clubs and xbox 360 cartridges, just trying to find my own place

::Joni Mitchell Never Lied::

2011-08-21T06:54:00.000-07:00

"Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
‘Til it's gone" - Joni Mitchell: Big Yellow Taxi

"But I’ve been drinking so much
That I’ma call her anyway and say
“F-ck that nigga that you love so bad
I know you still think about the times we had” - Drake: Marvin's Room

So you've made it. Survived a horrible breakup. Fought your way through countless nights of vodka and tears, only to wake up and wash it down with greasy egg sandwiches and advil the next morning. Deep club mixes provide the soundtrack to your life. Empty flirtations and expensive cab rides of regret. You got over it. Made your girlfriends go out on endless "girl power" trips. Began dating again. Date after date after date. Always some fancy place, with some guy in a suit, talking about his careers and goals. You sitting there, figiting with your dress, trying to remember if you left your curling iron on before you left the house. You then vow to give up dating. You're done. You're happy with yourself, by yourself.

And then it happens. You meet someone. Or, in my case, you look at someone you've always known in a new light.
And, you fall in love.

Happy, glorious, Nicholas Sparks type cheesy love. Family bbq's, trips to the beach, parties, lots and lots of days shut off from the world together. In a bed tangled up in sheets, and dvd's and baby-makin playlists. Just you two in your own little bubble.

While in this bubble, there begins to form a circle of opposition around you. A virtual army of soldiers, all holding a sharp object, ready to pop your bubble, and drag you back out into the real world with them. Men and women unite, to get back what they once had.

So as you drowsily climb out of bed, and saunter into the kitchen to grab some water, you check your missed texts and calls, and find yourself sitting there, naked, on the couch, awestruck. You repeat the words in your head. Those drunk slurred "You know I've always loved you. I miss you." On repeat. Somewhere in the sentence, a hint of a tear...maybe.Raw, drunk powerful words. Interrupting your night, like DJ Clue on every god damn CD he ever made. Out of nowhere. Just that damn echo. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE....

Men always want what they cant have. And women always want, what someone else has.
Its just life.

As you're sitting there stunned, because the one person you tried so hard to love. The one man that you wanted so badly to be with, finally, on this night, has come to his senses, your boyfriend is in the bedroom fighting off his own bubble-poppers.

Women use the lure of great sex, just as men use the lure of being loved.

All of a sudden, girls are willing to do whatever you want them to. Mouths that were once closed to the idea of oral sex, are suddenly wide open. And pardon the expression, thirsty.
They just can't believe that they are not attractive/sexy/amazing enough to actually be rejected by him. This "relationship" can't be real. No way he would turn down free vagina on a silver platter... "all this wetness all around me,true but im no island.."

It's all an elaborate game.

See, you had years to treat these people right. Countless times to try and win their love. And now that they've moved on, you suddenly have this epiphany? Chile please.

Men, you need to realize what you have when you have it.

I blame Nike. Ever since we were kids, you would buy a pair of sneakers, and then immediately throw them in a box and forget about them as soon as the next new pair came out.
Until you ultimately had a closet full of beautiful leather designs, but no money left to wear them anywhere.

Same with women. You collect us all like PokeMon cards. Just keeping us on hold, waiting. Stash some under the mattress, in a drawer, in a closet. Keeping everyone holding on by a thin string, with the allure that ONE DAY, ONE DAY when you're ready, you will FINALLY play with us. And then one day you realize someone stole a card. And even though you have 6894 more, that ONE card missing is KILLING you.

Add regret. Mix lust. Stir with some ugly broads and a bad DJ, and you get 3 am drives home confessing your everlasting love to the one girl that left.

You can miss me with all that.

And ladies. Men are not a Louis Vuitton bag that your girlfriend has that you envy. You can not "borrow" it to go to the club. You can not "use it" because it matches your outfit. Men take time, work, patience, and love. Do not be so vain as to think that one blow job from you, will make them turn their back on all the shit they have waiting for them at home.
Offering all kinds of sexual promises, favors, innuendos and such...for what?
Lets say you "win". And he fucks you on the side one night.
What do you really get out of that? Some kind of weird satisfaction knowing that you were able to tempt someone? Do you imagine that he will realize his mistake and suddenly dump the person he's with and run to your arms?

Chile please.
You had that same sub-par vagina for the past 26 years and he never made you his girlfriend. And now you're just some hoe, with wack vagina, that he regretfully smanged because he was drunk.
Give it a rest.

The most important lesson you can learn in this life, is to find, embrace, and keep happiness. And when you see someone else has found happiness, please support them as you would want their support.

Throwing insults at the new person they're with, or throwing your naked pics their way, isn't going to do anything but embarrass you both.

Grow up. Learn to keep the toys you love the most. If you neglect them, or mistreat them, someone else will steal them right from under you.And when that day comes, don't cry. Just learn the lesson and move on.

::Pandoras Box::

2011-08-11T07:13:00.000-07:00

"Pandora had a jar which she was not to open under any circumstance. Impelled by her natural curiosity, Pandora opened the jar, and all evil contained escaped and spread over the earth. She hastened to close the lid, but the whole contents of the jar had escaped, except for one thing which lay at the bottom, and that was Hope. "

"What is done cannot be undone." Macbeth: Shakespeare

Since the beginning of time, women have gotten a bad rap. From Adam blaming Eve for "forcing" him to bite the apple, to Pandora being blamed for all of the evil in the world, women have constantly been taking the rap for "the downfall of man."
Me, being a total expert at spinning issues like a Fox News anchor, would like to pose the question: Who is more at fault? The men who create the evil, or the women who expose it?

In 2011 the struggle continues. Pandora's box still exists, only now it is in the form of a handheld electrical device made by some assembly worker in a dirty Japanese warehouse. A man's cellphone. Wherein lies some of the Earths most evil, vulgar, sinister secrets.

It's often said that in a relationship, you should have 100% trust in the other person. To the people that say that, I challenge you to find a cell phone, and totally fight the urge to do a quick "cell scroll". Just a little peeksee. Just a little dibble dabble into the life of another person.
Even if its a total strangers cell phone, that innate nosiness. That natural urge for a little peek in someone else's secret life, is pretty hard to suppress.

Blame Pandora.

There are things that you can expect to find in a man's cell. Naked photos. Some old saved texts from ex-girlfriends. Maybe a few "I miss you" calls made on a drunken, complicated night.
And there are some things that take you completely by surprise. Especially when you do think you know someone, and trust them 100%. Especially when you were simply being "nosey" and really didnt expect to find anything.
There are some things, that you wish you hadn't seen. But can never forget.

That is the first crack in any relationship's foundation. That first questioning of trust. That first "oh shit." moment.

I'm not a mason, but I would assume there are cracks in most foundations. I think the key is that as long as they are minimal, and patched up correctly, they will still last the test of weathering, time and natural disasters. The key is to set them correctly, and not to put too many other bricks on top of the foundation until you're sure it can support the weight.

So after a long night of fighting, you think about all this. And you come to the conclusion that it was a small crack. No biggie.
But irreparable damage has already been done.
You will forever be that nosey bitch that went through my shit.
And he will forever be that asshole that's just like every other man.

The pedestals have been leveled. And you are no longer the perfect couple, in a bubble, hidden from the worlds evils.
You are now just two people trying to build something, without letting the outside temptation of the world tear you apart.

Perhaps ignorance is bliss. Or simply, a phone lock.

::All I see is fireworks::

2011-07-04T18:34:00.000-07:00

July 4th, 2011. Independence Day.
So America was all “fuck the British, we wanna do our own shit.” And they had wars and slavery and diseases and corruption and a pretty fucked up 200 or so years.
So Christina was all “fuck men get money, I wanna do my own shit.” And she had evictions and restraining orders and illnesses and a pretty fucked up 30 years.
When you’re young, everyone tells you, you can do whatever you want. That you don’t need anybody.
You feel like you can take over the world. Or, if the world is already occupied, you can just steal it, and claim it as yours. (Word to the colonists) Because YOU ARE THE SHIT.
You go through your life like this. This whole “the world is mine” attitude. Take no prisoners. You never need to actually “work out” relationship problems, because behind every Ciroc bottle being served in a dark club at 3am, there’s 50 new dudes waiting in line.
You never actually need to “over-achieve” at work, because, shit, life is SHORT! Work hard, but player harder. And you’re 25 making 45k.So really? Who gonna check me boo? Until, of course. They fire you.
And then you get to this moment. This very moment in life. When all you want to do is grab a blanket, and go lay out in the grass somewhere with some wine…perhaps a little Gouda, and chill with someone to watch the fireworks. And then you realize there is no one.
There’s a difference between “independent” and “alone”. HUGE difference. Just because you can pay your rent, car etc. Just because you can do your own taxes, hair etc. Just because you CAN take care of yourself without anyone else, doesn’t mean you want to be alone.
Hell. Even America is ridiculously dependent on other countries for shit we cant produce here. Like oil.
Penis is my oil.
Wars. Deaths. Financial ruin. Have all resulted from the pursuit of good penis. Errr uhh oil.
And you sit here, taking sips of wine from a box, filing your unemployment claim online, petting your gay cat…crying at your computer.
Because you’re not 25 anymore. Now you’re 30. And there aren’t 50 dudes waiting for you. There’s like 3. And they’re just as bitter and jaded as you are at this point. And you think back to all the fireworks you’ve seen in your life. All those moments, sitting with your family, watching fireworks and being bored as shit.
And you would give anything to rewind the clock and go back to those days. At least then you knew you were loved. And wanted. On a blanket, celebrating the birth of our country.
But you were too good for your family.
Just like you were too good for the last dude. Etc. Etc. Etc.
When. If. I get married. I want fireworks. I want the biggest most beautiful fireworks you could ever imagine. I want people to stop in their cars and watch our fireworks on a random Saturday night. And wonder what the hell are they celebrating?
And I will say, I’m celebrating our independence. The birth of our marriage. And our breaking away from this life of lonely self-centeredness.
But of course. That day….LOL Don’t hold your breath.

Whats Love Got to Do With It?

2011-06-24T07:54:00.000-07:00

"I think you're perfect. I love everything about you." - C.S., June 21, 2011

I guess thats what every woman wants to hear right? And, I guess everyone's gonna go ahead and say the following things:

A. How can you say you want love, and this guy is willing to love you,and you push it away, or
B. He's such a nice guy, why can't you just give him a shot and try it out or
C. You're getting too old to be picky. If this guy likes you then go for it.

To which I reply to everyone, "lalalalala I can't hear you" while covering my ears and running away lol.

See, thats the thing about attraction. Its like, 864% chemistry, and maybe 5% actual conscience decision.
Do you know how many super nice guys I'm friends with? That would be the BEST fathers, BEST husbands,BEST partners in life? - 86. Do you know how many of them I could actually have sex with? -0
And it has nothing to do with physical appearance. Lord knows that's never been high on my list. You should hear some of the nicknames my friends have for the dudes I've dated. Not very flattering at all lol.
But I value intelligence and wit above all else, and lets face it, ugly men are some of the smartest, funniest mofo's in the world. So...

Its just something "else" that you can't quite explain. Some people have it, and some people just don't.

My friend is in love with me. Like, build a shrine, burn candles, tear out locks of my hair and mix it with some chicken wings to try to create a voodoo spell to make me marry him type of love. That crazy walk around wearning matching shirts, and climbing to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro just to shout out how much you love and to hear it echo a million miles away. Its the kind of love that you read about in romance novels, and you think to yourself THATS what i want.
Until it's literally laying in your lap, and all you can do is keep watching the clock and checking your email and turning on bad reality shows until LOVE finally gets the hint and leaves.

The worst feeling in the world is loving someone,who doesnt love you back.
The second worst, is having someone love you, that you can't love back.

No one wins in that scenario. I end up looking like a heartless asshole, he ends up wasting hours trying to "convince" me that I'm making the wrong choice.

Meanwhile, the person you really want to be with, doesnt even answer your calls half the time.

Is it just a simple case of "you always want what you can't have.' Am I just reduced to a bullshit cliche?

I could get all Freud, and blame it on my dad.
I could get all Darwin, and blame it on my animalistic urge to hunt
I could get all Dr. Phil, and blame it on me being an idiot

But, in reality, its my heart. My crazy, cracked, broken, amazing, beautiful heart's fault. And my heart and my brain have never been friends.
One day I'll meet someone, and it will all make sense. But, this, is not the one.

::Gym Rats::

2011-05-10T19:38:00.000-07:00

In my newly found "free time", I've begun going to the gym. Like regularly. And I must say, with my whole entire soul, I hate it.
You walk in, with your little exercise gear on. iPod all ready to go with some fantastic playlist. Sneakers laced. Boobs being suffocated by the most inhumane contraption on Earth known as a "sports bra" (which, always, ALWAYS gives you uni-boob) and you just look around and shake your head.
At any given minute, on any given day, you can find the following people at your local gym.

I. Annie Anorexia: She weighs in as soon as she arrives. All 86 lbs of her. She goes super crazy Sonic the Hedgehodge speeds on the elliptical. To the point where you want to give her a hug, and tell her to slow down. Life will be ok. The machine didn't kill your mother. You don't have to punish it so. And then she jumps off and weighs herself again. And works out. And weighs herself again. And on and on ad nauseum. Until her, and her bony ass finally stumble out. Smelling like sweat, malnutrition and daddy issues.

II. Super Cool Muscle Head: Only goes to the gym to look at himself in a really really REALLY big mirror. Does a few reps. Flexes. Does a few more, takes cell phone pic of himself. Few more reps, winks at the front desk girl. Dude is literally working out, just to admire how amazing he is FOR working out. Easily spotted by the can of Muscle Milk in his hand, and freshly ironed wife beater. No sweat. Anywhere.

III. Your mom. : Or any ones mom. With her Wal-Mart Kathy Ireland work out gear on. Freshly laced Sketchers Shape-ups. Your mom is at the gym, to basically get away from your dad. Or you. Or just, life in general. She actually watches Regis and Kelley on the flatscreens. And chuckles when Regis makes some off-comment. She purchases all the juices/smoothies/tee-shirts and key-chains the gym sells. She has a flashy new water bottle. Possibly filled with white wine. She's just basically there so she doesn't have to be at home cooking dinner.

IV. All dem baby mommas: Similar to your mother, these ladies are just here to "loose those last 5 baby weight pounds." They're the ones hogging all the weight machines, because they have to text for 36 minutes in between each set.
They walk on the treadmill, extremely slowly, while talking on their phones about how their baby's dads ain't shit. They walk around the gym in general. In their fancy new Nike's and matching headbands. Nails freshly done. Full face of make up. The gym is their club. In which they can meet and possibly have indiscretions with our final gym member....

V. The gym pimp. Only at the gym to pick up women. Most of the times, right off the street wearing jeans and timbs. You never "actually" see them working out. They just walk around with their blue tooth in, looking really important and busy.
No one is sure why these men are in the gym. Staring at asses. Offering tips. Making small talk. And just being "douchey". These men, for the low-low price of $20 a month, can try and pick up as many insecure, lonely women who think they're fat as their hearts desire. I salute these men.

So finally, you get on the elliptical. With all these weird gym rats around.
And you're so exhausted from psycho-analyzing all the personalities around you, that you decided to go home and watch Judge Mathis.
And perhaps do some squats in the living room. The gym, its just not for you.

II. Super-cool juice head.

::Little Gifts::

2011-05-08T06:15:00.000-07:00

dis⋅so⋅lu⋅tion [dis-uh-loo-shuhn]

–noun
1. the act or process of resolving or dissolving into parts or elements.
2. the resulting state.
3. the undoing or breaking of a bond, tie, union, partnership, etc.

There has been a lot of dissolution this year. A lot of loose ends being tied up.
A lot of things ending,and the resulting states it leaves behind.

You tend to reflect a lot when something tragic happens...In this case losing my job right after my 30th birthday. A double whammy. Ive been reflecting about the past year. Which of course, leads to the past few years, which in turn,becomes
basically a rundown of your whole life. if you are like i am (which you're probably not, you're probably fucking normal)
you overthink everything. You think about it so much that you have it figured out. Down to its very core matter.
Until it looses all meaning.
Like a scientist. Who can look at a flower and tell you its exact genus and species. Tell you why its red. The other colors it comes in. The different varieties. The insects that feed off of it. Until the flower looses all wonder. Until the flower just becomes one of many.
Until the flower is not that wondrous amazing bit of nature anymore.

That's basically what I've done the past few weeks. Dissect my life until I'm numb to it.
The things I've been through, have undoubtedly changed me.

I was staring in the mirror last night, as I prepared for the date...and I looked very closely into my eyes.
Totally surrounded by dark black khol liner,highlighted with dark shadowed...mixed with metallic shades of green....
and I felt so very in love with my eyes.
The things that these eyes have seen in my lifetime, and yet they still have the nerve to stand there and stare back at me like
two perfect little brown chestnuts. AS if none of it affected them. As if they dont stay awake at night with those visions.

There are definitely defining moments in your life. I agree with that.
And also people who come in and out of your lives, bringing you little gifts. Sometimes its the gift of happiness.
Sometimes its the gift of greed, envy, anger, violence, love.
And you just keep accepting and accepting and accepting what these people are showing you and bringing to you.
Hoping that one day, you'll open up their gift and out will pop Bob Barker holding a check for a Million dollars, and a wedding ring, and Mr. perfect to put it on your finger, and a white horse to ride off in the sunset with.

But I've pretty much decided that that is one gift I'm not going to be getting in this lifetime. Not quite yet anyway.

So with my eyes, I see things a little bit differently now. THen I did when I was 17 and first moved to nyc and saw those huge skyscrapers and rode the 6 train to work and back.
A little differently then when I was 19 and saw someone get shot and killed right outside of my window in the Bronx.
A little differently then when I got drunk and high for the first time from some random pills that were being given to me. Little gifts.

A little differently then when I was 23 and saw my daughter being removed from my body. Everyone in plastic and paper robes and metal instruments all around.

A little differently then when I was 27 and lost my best friend and lover all in one day. because of things i'd seen with my eyes he'd been doing with other women.

And I see things a little differently now, after all of that has come and gone, at 30. And for the first time in my life have no job. And these eyes are trying to look into the future to see if I can find a glimmer of hope.

Sometimes it's hard for me to hold close eye contact with people. i laugh and say it's ADD. it's really not. it's really shyness. (i know right imagine me shy lol). I dont like for anyone to look too closely. BEcause I'm scared they'll be able to see who I really am.

Beyond the eye makeup and the clothes and the body and the hair.
Beyond the jokes and the laughter and the drunken kisses.
There is a very real, very intense soul.

I may never find the ONE person for me. That gets me. Or loves me. OR accepts me.

But as long as I can see the world, I can keep learning and growing. And i can't wait to see how I look back at all this and see it in another
30 years.

::No More Mondays::

2011-05-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you find yourself at work, and you're having a particularly bad day. Your boss may be taking out some personal issue on you. You might be having some back-stabbing co-worker trying to come after your position. Maybe some slanderous office gossip. Or maybe just that all too familiar feeling of your life and soul wasting away as you stare blankly at an Excel spreadsheet on your screen. Whatever it is,we all have that "when I leave this place" fantasy in our head. You know,that day when you finally walk around the office,tell your boss EXACTLY what's been on your mind the past few years. Perhaps give a few co-workers the finger. Or a few notes on personal hygenie or whatever you've been DYING to say.
My "last day" fantasy went a little bit like this:
Me walking around the office. Two Middle Fingers in the air. Doing the whole "you're cool, you're cool,you're cool, fuck you I'm out." from Half Baked.
Then I would pack up my things in a whirlwind. Maybe take out the copier like in Office Space. Say a few choice words to my boss. And walk out the front door like a fireball.

But see, that's why those are movies.
In real life that day finally came for me. After 15 years--HALF MY LIFE of working. The day came where I got that quiet ass call at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon.
I sat down in Human Resources. And they shut the door behind me. And my mind kinda blanked. All I heard were words like "cut-back" and "budget". But it wasn't making sense. In my mind all I could see was the outfit I wore on the first day. 4 years ago. Walking into that place so full of hope and promise for a new start. I thought about all the hours of coming in early, leaving late and working Saturdays and Holidays. All the missed soccer games my daughter had. All the stress. All the tears. All because this was my "career". I was sacrificing my life for my career. Because thats what people do. Thats America. That was my proud claim to life. To have a wonderful job.

And then, I didnt have a job.

I walked back upstairs, threw some shit in my bag, and walked out. Not a word to anyone.
I got into my car and about 3 blocks away before the tears started.
I cried for obvious reasons. Worried about money. My daugther. My rent. My car. All the material things I've become so attached to.
I cried for myself. 5 days after my 30th birthday and I had no job. Did I ever think I'd be at that point in life? No savings. No...nothing.
And I cried because I felt like I lost a part of my identity. And now I have to start a new one. And I was scared.

I got a bottle of Bacardi immediately. Wrote some tongue-in-cheek ass Facebook update, and drank until I fell asleep.

Everyone tells me about "new beginnings" and "something better" etc etc etc. And I believe them. I do. But right now? Right now? Lawd. I feel like I got hit with a Mac Truck.

Re-Use, Recycle, Rebound

2011-04-15T08:52:00.000-07:00

•More than once this week Ive heard (from men) the following: “Man, you need somebody to get him off your mind.” Or any other variation of that. I.E.
-- “you just need some dick” Or,
-- “ma, come hang out tonight. I’ll make you forget all about that dude.”

I’m not sure why men think their penis is magical. Or somehow has healing powers that Native American Shaman would be envious of.
Like my girl Tori Amos puts it,
“So you can make me cum. That doesn’t make you Jesus.”Even my female friends have become extreme activists of the “Best way to get over someone, is to get under someone new” campaign.

I just can’t possibly do it.
Oh. I mean. I’ve done it. And done it well might I add.
You dump me, and I can not ONLY rebound with someone richer, smarter, better looking, better sex, better life. BUT because I’m all angsty and bitter and anti-men, I’m usually at my BEST during these rebound relationships….if THE REBOUND was the second act of a play, I’d steal the spotlight.
All in an effort to prove that I’m an amazing woman, and then, obviously, to treat the rebound like I was just treated and get some shallow satisfaction.
Hurt people hurt people.

That is so emotionally fucked up you can’t even imagine.
And you end up with this shallow feeling, that overtakes your whole soul.

The Rebound Risks:
1. You stay Rebounding beyond the expiration date. And it turns into “dating.”

----This can go one of two ways. Either you find yourself a few weeks into this wanting to renig your original position of nothing serious…just got out of something, etc etc” and you get rejected.
Or
HE starts to catch feelings for you. And you know that you’ve taken the rebound thing too far. And now, real feelings are involved. And you feel like an evil, evil little woman. And now not only are you broken hearted, but you get the luxury of passing that hurt along to an innocent player in your weird game of life.

2. A one night stand could occur.
You know…the kind where you TELL yourself its going to be “just sex…nothing else.” And you have a crazy, beautiful, amazing, Before Sunrise like weekend. And everything is love and happiness and sex and drinks and drugs and music. And you never want it to end. And every single empty part of your soul fills up. Until Monday comes. And you realize, every single thing that was filling your soul, was fake. Man-made liquor and drugs. False kisses. Hazy whispers in a dark bedroom.
The feeling may last a few days. Until reality hits. And you feel even lower than before.

3. You Rebound with an ex.
In an effort to keep your “hoe” meter below a certain level, you tell yourself that it’s better to run back to an ex for emotional and physical release, instead of finding a new person. Plus, you already know the sex is good, and you two get along, so there wont be any “awkward morning after” shit to deal with.
Except. Lord. There are so many wrong things with this, than I can even list here. It’s a whole other blog.
Lets just say. Rebounding with an ex is a dangerous spiral. Its like walking in quicksand. Hop in, hop out. Any time lingering around in that muddy swamp of old feelings and past hurts, and you WILL SINK.

To sum up this mess of a rant, MEN rebounding is not the way. Please stop advising your female friends to go this route.
You know damn well that you and your penis have slayed many broken hearted hoes before. And you know damn well, that was the most selfish sexual act ever performed.

Hugs, not Drugs and Semen, is the best way to heal hearts. LOL

::Fist Pumping Away the Sadness::

2011-04-12T13:42:00.000-07:00

There I stood. Lost in a sea of button down shirts, with bedazzled crosses on the back, and dresses that I swear my 6 year old couldn’t even smuggle her goodies into. I was in the heart of Jersey. The deep down dirty beat thumping dance floor at Mur Mur in Atlantic City. My vision was blurry from the fog machine and the blinking “hey lets fuck with the high people” strobe lights. My nose irritated from the smell of Axe body spray and that unmistakable stench of attention whoreness.
To the left of me was a very inebriated man, with an iphone, and a screen shot of him with The Situation. Apparently he was on one of the episodes of the Jersey Shore. This was his pick up line by the way. There was no “can I buy you a drink.” No, “my name is John. Or Mikey. Or whatever.” No. His line was “Hey do you watch the Jersey Shore?” (thrusts screen shot in my face) “Boom!! That’s me and The Situation.”
This is your greatest achievement in life? This is what you’re leading with? Sir. Sir. Sir. Sit down.
To the right of me, was the smallest girl I’d ever seen. Teeny tiny little person. Not a midget. Just petite. Her hair was all teased up, and there was visible evidence of the use of a “bump” and extensions. She was just about naked. Save a little sliver of material across her tiny boobies. And some “shorts” that were smaller than my “period panties”. And I loved her. And her naked, young, zero cellulite, zero fat, zero troubled life.
I mean, im sure she has troubles. What guy to go out with. What girl is wearing the same Jessica Simpson heels as her. What to tell her mother when she asks where all her college money went to.
But all in all. She was my hero.
She was the epitome of everything that is brainless. Excessive. Fun.
There’s never been an argument with a baby daddy. There’s never been a day when she came home to find no lights on. There’s never been a moment when she didn’t think she couldn’t bear to go on.

See. These kids. That jump around for 16 hours, listening to what seems to be the same fucking song, are my heroes. Drugged up of course (no sober person has that dedication, energy or focus) dancing, singing, making-out. Living as if no one is watching. As if they alone rule the world.
Sunglasses, glow sticks, blinking lights. Off rhythm, off beat, on beat. Up, down, falling over, throwing up.
All done with this whole “carpe diem” attitude that was admirable.

I glanced down and it was 3:30 am. And I had to get to a 9 am meeting. Because I’m 29. With a 6 year old. And a boss that hates me. A job I’m stuck in because of location. And money. And bills. And all of this life just pushing down on me, threatening to suffocate me every day.

But for one night, I got to see how the other half lives. And parties. And I must say. It was beautiful.

Be Young. Have Fun. Drink Pepsi.

::Straight from a page of your favorite author.....::

2011-03-29T09:10:00.001-07:00

Relationships are like a novel by your favorite author. You know their writing style. You like them. You’re instantly attracted to the cover. To the story.
You start out fresh on the crisp first page…all with interest and intrigue and your 100% undivided attention.
Glass of wine. Even turning off the TV to sit down and read. Just you and your book. You carry it around in your purse with love and honor.
And then around page…26ish…you start to get a little bored.
Your attention begins to drift.
You sometimes forget to even pick the book up. It just lays neglected on the coffee table while you watch some brainless reality show.
So then you loose your page.
You try to figure out where you left off…skipping boring passages…skipping whole chapters altogether…just to “hurry up and get to the end.”

You get to read all about your characters action packed adventures. All the fluffy sex scenes.
All the violent fights.
All the drama.

But you never really connected with who that character was….because you skipped over like 18 chapters in a rush to get through it.

So when the main character dies at the end, you don’t feel anything.

With that being said, no, we are not on the same page.

Because in an effort to be the perfect couple, we forgot character development and plot. Somehow attention got diverted. We began focusing on the things going on around us, instead of what was going on inside of us. We were so willing to commit 100% of everything we were in the first few chapters, but when it started to get boring, or when the writing style wasn’t really what we thought it would be, instead of pushing through those awkward chapters, we just skipped right to the end.

And now that the story has ended, can you really go back and re-read those first few chapters?
Would that really help?
You already know the ending.

Time to move on to another book. And start over. Again.

::Lets play the Name...Game....::

2011-03-28T14:01:00.001-07:00

Inspired by a recent trip to the park, where I ran across a woman named Pam, I thought to myself…how much of our names really define who we become in life?
For example.

Quintessential trailer park names.
::I always felt sorry for women named Pam. They all seem to have that hard living struggle face. All worn out and dried up by Marlboros and domestic violence. See Also: Carol. Loretta. Leann. Beth. Maggie.

Eats a Big Mac in a parking lot and washes it down with a Diet Coke names.
::Claire. Dorris. Donna. Shelby. Brenda. Lois. But mainly Nancy. I have never met anyone named Nancy that was less 345lbs. Anyone named Nancy looks like they can push Ford Explorers down pot-hole streets with one hand, and washes down Ham and Cheese sandwiches with a water bottle full of melted butter.

Will have sex with your boyfriend in the bathroom while you’re all out to dinner names:
::Ashley. Lindsay. Becca. Angel. Nikki. Tasha. Lexi. Anyone named after a car, or a liquor. Extra points if its spelled “intentionally” wrong.

Slashes their boyfriends tires, and then tries to slash you names:

::Denise. Chevon. Keisha. Marisol. Angelique. Priscilla.

Wear’s mens loafers and listens to K.D. Lang all day at work names:
::Roni. Paula. Joan. Marcy.

::Water Board Nominees::

2011-03-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

People who need to be waterboarded

I. The overly happy co-worker who asks “how you weekend was” with a huge grin first thing Monday morning, as you stumble towards the coffee maker.
B*tch is my cup empty? Is it 8am? Fall all the way back. How are these people waking up so happy? Sex? Burbon? Anti-depressants? I need answers white America.

II. People who answer the phone “yellow” without being the least bit ironic. Like, they seriously answer the phone that way.
Because, that’s how they talk.

III. People who pull out in front of you, and then proceed to go 36 mph. Are you kidding me Tokyo Drift? You were all in a hurry to cut me off and now you’re not even GOING the speed limit?

IV. Keeping on the subject of asshole drivers, people that pass you by going 186 mph only to have to slam on their brakes at the SAME red light you are at.
Again, I ask, really sir? This is not the Indy 500. This is a small highway in a suburbs with red lights. Calm it down.

V. People named Mercedes. Porcha. Moet. Chardonnay. Lexus. I mean. I know its not your fault. But no good can come to society with a name like that.
No ambassador of peace will ever be named Chardonnay Harrison. Just do us all a favor and change your name. Don’t let your parents drunken night listening to Teddy Pendergrass while getting high in a white Caddy ruin our society any further.

Vi. People who “groom” themselves in public. If you would normally do it at home in your bathroom, what in the mother of Jesus makes you think its ok to do this on a public street. Or office desk? This includes but is not limited to: cutting your finger/toe nails. Cleaning your ears out with a Q-Tip. Flossing.
Applying deodorant.

VII. Men who’s facial hair is overtaking their face. It’s one thing to have a nice beard. It’s a whole other to have people offering to give you change and sandwiches as you walk down the street. Homelessness is not, nor will ever be sexy.

I could go on forever…..feel free to add your own personal pet peeves to our “water board nominee” list lol

:;Top Three Most Annoying Drunken Questions::

2011-03-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

Theres no such thing as a dumb question. Only annoying, pointless, usually slurred next to me while standing at a bar waiting for a drink questions.
So. I thought I’d go ahead and answer them now. Please bookmark this blog in case you ever meet me one day and I walk away from you smiling with none of your questions answered.

1. What are you?
A woman. Pretty complicated. Some daddy issues I would imagine. Music enthusiast. Obsessed with fashion. Oh? You meant my RACE? Well if you want to know my RACE then ask me what my ethnic background is. Or just my ethnicity. Or something creative, like “you have a very exotic look, I cant quite figure out what race you are.” NOT “yo what are you.”
See Also: “you whatchu mixed wit cuz I know you aint white.”

2. What do you do for fun?
Spelunking. Dumpster diving. Drive-bys. I mean really? Could that question be any broader? Ole generic just sayin shit to hear yourself speak ass. Put some creativity into it!

3. Why are you still single?
Im apparently a frigid sexual partner with no cooking abilities and the propensity to set wardrobes on fire any given Sunday. Shit. I don’t know negro. But I know why you are. Breath mints save lives, and make babies smile. Try one. Or three.
See Also: “You where ya man at shawty”, or “You way too fine to not be married.”

::Steak and some Special Sauce::

2011-03-14T14:54:00.000-07:00

I thought id blog today in honor of Steak and a Blow Job day. The official “men’s” holiday.
Well, let me rephrase that, I “thought” id be participating in the festivities of today, but since I am not, I’m blogging.

There’s much talk as to how all you need to do to keep a man happy is to keep him “full and fucked”.
My mother and father have been married 30 years, and every single night he comes home to a hot meal (yes my mom works). I imagine its been that way since they met.
They also still enjoy an active sex life (don’t ask. Lets just say, the day you find out your mom is a “screamer” is a day you’ll spend the rest of your life drinking to try and forget)

From friends, to family members, to relationship “experts”, to men themselves, theres a big emphasis put on being skilled in the bedroom and kitchen.
Since I was 18 years old I’ve been trying to excel at both.
Consistently going into each new relationship with an arsenal of recipe’s and porn, I am bright eyed and willing to please these basic needs.
And time and again these relationships end.
Not because I burned chicken.
Not because I wouldn’t wear fishnets in bed.

See, all the things you “do” for your man, might keep him perfectly happy and pleased in the beginning. But it’s the things that you two do “together” that make it last.
None of this “I do this for you, so now you do this for me” mentality.
Everything should be given from the heart. Not because you’re trying “get” or “keep” a man.
You want to make a steak, go head and get your Lawrys on.
You want to give a blow job, go head and suck until your motherfuggin jaw is sore for a week.

But please make sure you’re doing these things because you WANT TO. And not out of some weird obligatory “this Is what men want” bullllllshit.
Anytime something starts to feel like an “obligation” and not “love”, that’s when the resentment sets in.

I do recommend preparing a nice meal and doing something special for your man today. And, well, everyday. And if you cant cook, don’t kill yourself (and possibly him) by trying to all of a sudden learn overnight lol. I nice take-out dinner with some candles works just as well. (and will keep you out of the ER)
It’s important to keep the love going. And if you are lucky enough to have someone, its always good to show them your appreciation.

There are some of us, who have a damn fine steak recipe and no gag reflexes, that are still searching for someone worthy of both.

***********OH AND MEN….A FEW TIPS*************
1. Always always always take a little trip to the bathroom before we get down to business. There’s nothing worse than going down there only to be faced with lint, Dorito crumbs and a pungent odor of…well…sweaty balls.
2. Before you cum, it might be nice to give the young lady a heads up…perhaps even ask where it would be appropriate to “deposit the funds” at. Of course, if you guys have been together for a while, this is unnecessary, but in the beginning, when you’re first drawing boundaries and pushing limits, its best to ask.
One girls “normal” is another girls “this man was raised by porn stars on a ranch in Vegas”.
3. A little bit of gagging is fine. Normal. To be expected. When she starts turning blue though, bro, release the back of the head. Nothing like a dead girlfriend with a stomach full of semen. You’re not a Kennedy. You can’t get away with shit like that.
4. Speaking of holding the back of the head, use it as a guide, or just as a “handle bar” if you’d like, but at the end of the day, remember, this is HER time to be in control. IF you don’t like something she’s doing, best to speak it and not try and direct things. Once accidental left push, when she was going right, and ooooppps….ER visit.
5. And. Of course. As with anything else. Say thank you. Balls are some of the ugliest things you can ever come face to face with.

HAPPY STEAK & BJ DAY FELLAS

Aging. not so fucking Gracefully

2011-02-04T12:22:00.000-08:00

So. I’m watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. On a very large high def television. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
It was just truly frightening. A horror of which Amityville could never imagine.
It was also one of the saddest things I’ve ever been subjected to.
Each and every line on their face, covered in about 86 lbs of foundation. Liver spots highlighted and on display. Scars. Bumps. Wrinkly hands decorated with big cocktail rings and fake nails perfectly polished. Every single botox injection point. The years and years of nips and tucks and pulling and stretching and injecting. Until they barely looked human. Until the one housewives lips, literally looked like they were going to fall right off of her face. Right there. On the floor. On live t.v. I was on pins and needles waiting for it.

Once I tried to burn all my Barbie’s in my “feminists of the world united” bon fire in my backyard. The result was pretty much what I saw on tv last night.
Synthetic singed blonde hair.
Melted skin.
Sagging knee caps.
All struggling to still fill out the same body form it once was.
I shudder to think what was hidden beneath the sequin dresses, and elaborate diamond jewels.

This year I turn 30. Which, to me, is the end of my life.
Please please. Stop your “30 is the new 20” mantra right now. NOTHING is 20 BUT 20. Nothing. Even by 21 you’re already 10 years older from all the drinking you’ve done in the past year. 20 is 20 and that is it.
I’ve spent over $500 in the past year on facial creams, anti-aging lotions, collagen enriched serums. But we all know that lies beneath.
Once that make up is off.
Once those clothes are off.
You are a 30 year old mother. You, are a real woman. Not a Barbie. Not an actress. Not a model. You are a real woman aging in America.
You, my dear, are officially worthless. (in America’s eyes at least)
But I’ll be damned if I try and hide that face.
I say, we embrace our sagging boobs. We hug our cellulite-ridden thighs. And we ride this thing out until the wheels fall off in our natural body.
Not something science and Beverly Hills surgeons have created.

Keep it real. Real housewives. Keep it real. For us.

Love in the time of Kardashians

2011-01-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

I miss the simple days of love. Where you met. You married. You had children.
There were still the same problems. Alcoholism. Infidelity. Domestic Abuse. Recession. Death. Taxes.
But it was all veiled behind fabulous elbow length gloves, and low-tipped fedoras.
No one really knew what was going on in your home. No one dared question you about your husband. Or your children. Those were private intimate things.

For better or worse that’s just how it was.

Today we have the absolute extreme opposite. And just as damaging as it is to live behind veils and lies, its equally damaging to be too open. Too exposed. Too naked.

This is the struggle I have within myself constantly.
How to keep pieces of myself private and protected. But also allow myself the comfort and personal freedom that comes with being totally open and honest about my life.

Its very easy to “put it all out there.”
Between twitter and facebook. Foursquare. .Tagged photos. Comments. Replies. Innuendos. You can pretty much expose your whole life. Whether you realize it or not.
Who you’re with. Who you’re not with. Where you go. What you do. What you like. What you dislike.

Its especially difficult when you’re in love.
You want to tell the world. You want to share your happiness with everyone. You want to run around and be all “yeaaahhhhh motherfuckers….somebody loves me. And what” lol
You’re so ridiculously smitten that just because you stare at that terrible ass picture of the two of you together, you think the whole world also wants to stare at it.
So you’re all busy uploading, and dedicating songs, and being uber gay. And then you realize, you are a Kardashian.
The line between public and private has become so blurred that you find yourself updating online statuses WHILE you’re with that person. ABOUT that person. Who is RIGHT THE FUCK next to you.

This madness ends now.
I want to love in the purest form. Without an audience. Without a cheering squad. Or for that matter, a booing section.
Let my success or my failure in this relationship be my own.

::Crafty Broads:::

2010-12-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

So there's been a recent outbreak of "engaged" women I know. A crisis. A black plague upon our community. On a daily basis, I see these women, who I wouldnt necessarily say are anything "worth talking about", prancing around with these big ass engagement rings and fab men. With jobs. And cars. And no nasty addiction to : sex with other women, weed, video games, gambling or any other high school like vice.
So naturally, I felt the need to really sit down and address the real issues here.
What is setting these women apart from me. What is making them "wife" material. What is going on in America. This is what I've come up with:

A. Crafts not Ass
One of the engaged women, recently passed around Reeses peanut butter cups, with tiny Christmas trees glued to the top as gifts for people in the office.
Who does that??!!! I have never found myself sitting at home, thinking "hey...you know what...i should hot glue some mini christmas trees to chocolate." Shit, I dont even own a hot glue gun.
The other girl is designing her own center pieces. The other, made home-made Christmas cards.
The more I paid attention, the more it became clear. Women who craft get married. Whatever part of the brain, that makes you actually stay in the house, to cut and glue shit, for people that will no doubt just throw it out, is severely underdeveloped in mine. If it exists at all.
So. I'm going to scrapbook. Its been decided. I bet everyman in the world has a hard on right now.

B. Turtles not Leopards
The other stark contrast between myself and these women, were the things they wear. Turtlenecks, "sensible" flats, tweed pencil skirts. Ironed white blouses.
Never once did I see any animal print. Nothing with chains attached. Nothing made of leather, feathers or any kind of fur. Nothing too bright. Nothing too dark. Everything very earthy and calm. Relaxing. Like, you just want to curl up next to them and thier cable knit sweater and watch Lifetime movies.
My outfits, usually envoke a sensation of wanting to get on stage and sing bad 80's songs at kareoke.

So its been decided. J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and a subscription to Redbook and not Nylon. I'm going to be a proper magazine cut out.

So crafting. Dressing like a librarian.
Oh and....being a good cook. A good maid. A porn star in bed. Liking sports. Knowing when to shut up. Knowing when to speak up. Being smart. Sexy. Look like a model. Never get too drunk. Don't curse. Always smile. Be witty. Be humble. Be ambitious. Be strong. Be sensitive. Be perfect.

So. I think I can do all that. lol Fuck. who am I kidding. haha.

A Break. AKA: I need to have sex with other people while you feel insecure about yourself and get fat overdosing on alcohol and ice cream.

2010-08-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

A break
Aka. I need to have sex with other people while you feel insecure about yourself and get fat overdosing on alcohol and ice cream, until I decide I’m bored and come back.

So I’ve never been on a “break” before.
I honestly don’t know what it means. The whole concept is foreign to me.
See, I have this pair of amazing shoes. Love them. Everyone loves them. I get compliments every day and they make me happy.
But sometimes they’re out of season. And they just sit around collecting dust. And people ask to borrow them. And I SHOULD let them.
Because I’m not using them. And I know I’ll get them back eventually. But, god forbid, someone looses them. Or breaks a heel. OR they just don’t come back in the condition I left them in.
That’s not a risk I’m willing to take with my fashion.

And I don’t understand men who are willing to take that risk with women.

If you are in a relationship. Even if ,at the moment, you’re not in the best place in that relationship. Even if there seems to be a bit of arguing. Perhaps some boredom setting in. Whatever it may be.
If you are in a relationship, its YOURS. And you either fix it. Or you end it. You don’t lease it out for a little bit, while you figure out what you want, and then expect to still be able to come over and enjoy the benefits. This is no summer rental sir.

A break hurts the exact same way a “break-up” does. You still feel inadequate, like whatever you did wasn’t enough to “keep” that person.
You feel regretful. Thinking about all the time “wasted” with this person. Time that could have been spent with someone much more deserving. Like yourself.
You’re sad. You’re lonely. And, jealous. Which comes unexpectedly. Because now, you have ZERO right to question anything. The simple “where’d you go last night” might open up a big can of worms. So you avoid any “questions” and go on pretending like you’re all good with everything. It turns into this very fake, very forced “friendship.” But the foundation is built on false hope. The foundation is built on the hope that this man will come back. So in the meantime you don’t want to do anything to ruin what “may” happen in the future. So you stay smiling, and happy and available. And hope one day he “snaps” out of it, and comes back home crying.
Which never does. I’m convinced.

All the stupid clichés. “If its meant to be let it go and it will come back to you” blah blah blah B.S.

I’m a firm believer that if it was meant to be, you wouldn’t have gotten rid of it in the first place.
Even if its one MINUTE of being on a break. that’s enough time to potentially loose the person you care about for good.
All it takes is one drunken night. One fabulous date. One minute of someone else, to get you distracted.
God knows I have a.d.d.

Breaks are bullshit and you all know it. But maybe I’m being a little harsh. What do ya’ll think?

:: If i were a man::

2010-07-10T08:28:00.000-07:00

So as I sit here, in a fab silk nightgown, drinking a Mimosa out of great crystal glasses, with a fresh manicure and pedicure, hot rollers in my nicely highlighted hair, it dawned on me, its hard being a woman.
In my next life i want to be a man. A fat, sloppy, hairy, sarcastic, filthy rich man with a huge penis.
I don't want to shave. I don't want to go to the gym. I dont want to do anything. But buy some hoe a bunch of Gucci and then lay in bed while she handles the rest. Perhaps with a drink in my hand while she works her ass off to please me. And then afterwards never call. That's my dream.

There is so much pressure required of women. I have to be a great cook. I have to keep my house in top-top condition. I have to work and be financially independant. I have to be pretty. Hair, nails, clothes must all be on point. I have to be smart. Charming. I have to be amazing in bed. And I must above all things, keep a man.
Which requires I stuff myself into stilletos and maid costumes. And come home after a long day, and be ready to put aside all my tiredness, and gripes, and bitchiness (to not appear to be nagging/complaining)
I call bullshit.

What exactly is expected of men? I dont ask him to put on a football uniform and pretend to be Reggie Bush during sex? I don't ask him to cook or clean. Because obviously that's "womens business." I dont ask for money, because then I'd be "a golddigging whore."
So basically, as Kat Williams so eloquently says it, he just presents the same penis night after night. And I'm expected to just be content with that.

In a world where there are way more single and available women who are all too willing to do everything it takes to get married, then there are actual men to marry...the playing field has gotten all kinds of sloppy. And the older us women get, the more value we are loosing. How can i be expected to comepete with a 22 year old still in school, who has NOTHING but time on her hands. To go tanning. Get her hair and nails done weekly. Wake up for the gym early every morning, because there's no boss to report to. Splurge on expensive clothes because she's still living at home. I mean...honestly...its a loosing battle I'm in here.
To the point where, men are just expected to A. Have a job. B. Not cheat and C. Not beat us.

Those are pretty low expectations. And I'm pretty jealous.

That's why I would like to be a man in my next life.
Plus I want to be able to say "suck my dick" one day in a fit of road rage.

Men rule.

::Valentines Day is for Suckers::

2010-02-12T17:05:00.000-08:00

How to Cope with Saint "you'll never be loved and aren't good enough for life" Valentine's Day::

So Valentine's Day is approaching. Usually I would be filled with angst and disgust. My last Valentines Day was spent at the Holiday Inn drinking a 40 oz out of plastic champagne flutes [say what you will but I am a classy broad] only to get dumped the next week. However I have high hopes for this year's big V-day celebration. Wish me luck.
For the rest of you, who find themselves alone, bitter and wondering if one day you will turn into that old woman that eats cat food/ that old man that still goes the bars and checks out underage girls...this is for you.

I. Most of that chocolate sucks anyway
Like a great man once said..."life is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're gonna get." Pure poetry. So true. Most of the chocolate in that "assorted" box sucks. Like most of life. You spend all morning taking little tiny bites out of each one, just to find out that it's caramel, or has pecans or some other weird nut in it you don't like. By the end of the day your face is breaking out from all the sugar, you feel like a fat ass from eating the whole box, and in the most dangerous of situations, you may even find yourself in the emergency room, having learned you're allergic to pecans. Who knew?

II. Lingerie will give you the Hives

Let's just be frank here. Anything made out of any other material but cotton, should not be touching your vagina. It's just a recipe for disaster. I'm tired of everybody pushing those damn "sexy Valentines day" god awful lace contraptions on me. I'm not wearing red lace thongs with matching red thigh highs and garters. I'm not working on Hunts Point giving out blow jobs for $20 and getting bitch slapped by some dude that goes by the name of ‘Slim Johnny” and hasn’t used toothpaste since 1978. Just because some man/marketing company/general perv thinks red lace is hot, I refuse to subject my vagina to synthetic fibers. Let me be home alone in my Hanes Her Way bloomers, on my couch, comfortably watching re-runs of the Sopranos. Let those other dumb broads itch their crotches all night… Pass!!

III. Speaking of sex...

Why do people feel the need to "experiment" on Valentine's Day? Who needs chocolate mocha pudding dripping off their butt cheeks? Who needs to be spanked with some heart covered leather whip? Just because you put hearts on it, doesn’t make it cute. That shit still hurts. If you're into that, do it the other 364 days a year. Don’t just wait for this one night, to come and surprise me with all your crazy kinky sex store supplies. I like to know what I'm getting into from the start. There's nothing worse than using some dumb holiday to "try new things." I never want to hear "you know normally I wouldn’t suggest this...but since I took you to see that gay ass Mandy Moore romantic-comedy and you’ve got me all hot in your red lace thongs… I think we should __________ [use your imagination.] Ummm...next.

IV. Hallmark is the devil

If I get another "you are the love of my life" card, god help me. Who writes this shit? "My world was incomplete until I found you." Ok spare me. We're all adults here. You know damn well all those cards are written by some meth addict who's been up for 2 weeks, getting 50 cents a word...just writing random shit to get enough for a re-up. All those poor men wandering aimlessly around the store with this dead, blank look in their eyes. Its torture I tell you. It never means anything. You pick either the a. prettiest card [if you're a metro-sexual], b. the most expensive card [if you're a status seeking baller type or c. the cheapest card [if you're most people.] and that's it. There's no thought involved. Save your $2.50 and write me a letter.

V.50 % of marriages end in divorce

So you're stuck at home and all your married/couple friends are out wasting money at some over-priced French place, drinking dry ass wine and trying not to argue for one night. Take this comforting piece of advice...chances are, they're not going to make it anyway. All those balloons and flowers and cards and chocolates....and next year they're going to be crying on your shoulder as they go through their divorce proceedings. You just play your odds. Stay at home with your take out Mexican food, and "recreational" drugs. Dance by yourself to some old Inxs...and love your life. Love your self, and your career and your freedom. February 14th ends at midnight, and then its back to their dry, stale, loveless lives. Laugh at them. You always were the smarter friend.
Updated over a year ago · Comment ·LikeUnlike

::Drunk texting is the devils work::

2010-01-17T15:59:00.000-08:00

I propose an idea.
I propose that my phone be equipped with a breathalizer.
Like a multiple drunk driving offender, that has to breathe into some contraption before his car will start...I am a multiple drunk text offender.
And I need the State to intervene.
For the safety of myself and others.

There should be some kind of sobriety texting exam I would have to pass before being able to use it after 1 am. Like a series of questions: as follows....

1. Christina, how many drinks have you had tonight? (i would lie of course and say one or two)
2. Christina, you dont have to lie. I'm your best friend. Now really how many drinks?
(i stopped counting after 4)
3. Ok then,Christina who are you trying to call?
(to which i would type in a name.)
4. Christina, do you think he needs to hear any fucking thing you need to say at 2 am? (yes. these are my thoughts and he needs to hear this.i dont care what time it is)
5. Fine then, if you're so insistent in texting your innermost thoughts to dude at this time and drunkness in the night, please compose an 8 sentence paragraph without misspelling one word and i will unlock the phone.

and then I would struggle. and fail. and my phone would be shut off until the morning.

But no. My so-called "smart" phone, is not that damn smart.

And I try and have that convo with myself, but myself is pretty biased and usually lets me get away with anything i want.

So there I go drunk texting like an asshole.
Professions of love.
Promises of commitment.
Questions about relationship status.
Snarky backhanded comments.
Taunting sexual innuendos.

Basic dumb shit that was probably lingering on my mind all day, but I (smartly) was able to push those thoughts aside.
It's amazing how liquor truly is a truth sermon.

The worst part of drunk texting, is of course, the next morning.
As you go through and painfully erase the texts you sent because they're so embarrassing to even re-read.
Sadly, deleting them won't erase the fact that they were sent.

Hopefully the person realized that you were drunk and ignored half of your remarks.
if not, you carefully craft an "apology" text once the hangover subsides, and hope it's accepted.
In either case, the words were said. (or written)and damage has been done.

For all my loyal friends and readers, I urge you to forgive the drunk texters of the world. We will start a support group and get help. But in the meantime,cut us some slack.

:: Me and Sofia::

2010-01-15T11:18:00.000-08:00

So on a random Wednesday I decided to get together with my friends and get a weave.
Whatever.
I've been trying to grow my hair out for like 6 months now, and it just doesnt seem to be getting anywhere.
I always wanted long,beautiful, Kim Kardashian hair. With the waves, and the silkiness and all that.

So as my friends and I discussed men, kids, life, etc...Sofia got sewn into my scalp.

I named her Sofia because literally, it feels like a foreign object has invaded my head space. Like I have the hair of some beautiful Italian woman mixed in with my own half-bred nappiness. lol

So Sofia and I have had a few good days. We went to the mall. We went up to New York. I wore a little beret to the museum with her,to keep her warm.

The most ironic thing about Sofia, is that she was purchased to make me feel more beautiful. To boost my self-esteem. I thought long hair was the key to feeling sexy and attractive and Playboy bunny of the month like.
But quite the opposite has happened.
I feel fraudulent.
I keep checking to make sure my tracks aren't showing.
I look at other peoples expressions to see if they think it's real or not.
She's shedding everywhere.
I've been the most unwelcoming host to her. I've brushed her all crazy, never wrapped her before sleep, pulled, curled, sprayed, straightened.
Everything you're not supposed to do. As if she was just real hair.
She's now a tangled mess.
I really don't even feel like myself.
I feel like a cheap airbrushed photo of myself on a dating website.
Trying to give this "illusion" of something amazing.
But don't get too close, and don't touch. And please don't pull.

So this is going to come out soon. And I've learned my lesson.
Beauty can't be bought.
Beauty simply is.

::Karma is a bitch. ::

2010-01-15T10:52:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how many random ass dudes come out of the woodworks, when you've finally decided to "move-on" and "be happy".

I blame Apple.
I know the iPhone has some kind of application that lets sheisty ass cold hearted men, know when women have stopped thinking about them.
I believe they get a little message pop up window. "Alert. Phonebook entry "Christina" has been detected to be getting some new dick and hasnt called in three months. Suggested resolution: text her some sappy ass lyrics and try and hold on a little longer."

Fucking Steve Jobs. Yeah we have an app for that.

Literally my phone has been on fire for weeks. All the Grade A assholes too.
The cheaters, the liars, the abusers. The one who keeps me as "backup ass". All the great characters that have been in and out my life for years.

The amount of tears wasted over these men, could flood a desert.

And here i am happy. And here you are missing me.
Ands isn't that just all too typical.

YOu always want what you can't have.

"dont know what you got til its gone..." Joni Mitchell never lied.

Well I dont have an iPhone. I have a blackberry. And we dont have all those cool apps you douche bags have, but we do have a little feature that I've grown to love.
Its a "delete all history" option.
I like to think of this as a memory eraser.
It will delete your name, number, all information/texts/emails associated with your name.

Everything. Blank.

It's the closest thing to the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind as I could get.

In the meantime. If you are currently a man, and you're mistreating a woman that loves you. If you're using her for sex, money, company. If you know how she feels about you, and you just keep leading her on. Shame on you. Please note that she will eventually move on. And you will regret that day you get memory erased. Karma is a motherfather.

::Hands down, I'm too proud for love."::

2010-01-15T10:07:00.000-08:00

So you've done it. You've successfully made it out the Hoe Zone. Perhaps you didn't hold out the 6 months you'd aimed for. But you crossed major milestones.
You speak everyday. You've introduced the friends. Had countless dates, many of them lasting 2 or 3 days. He's farted. You've snored. He's pointed out your boogers. You've picked lint out his hair. He's seen you without makeup, heels, fancy labels or anything else you hide behind. You've shown yourself. Naked. Literally and figuratively.
You're totally smitten. And you give it up.
"Now, me non-clairvoyant and in love...made the coochie easy and the obvious invisible..." -J.Scott

You my dear, have cleared the "jump-off", "hoe" and "side-chick" zones, and you are entering the scariest and most complicated zone there is. The quicksand of zones. You are entering the "Where do we go from here" zone.
This is where even the most masterful gamer gets lost.
This is where none of those rules you scribbled down while watching "Tough Love" in your Snuggie and wife beater matter anymore.
This is where Patty and her damn Millionaries could tell you all day what to do next. And you will ignore it. And follow your heart. Your foolish, broken, half-demented heart.

See in this zone, you are both falling. But neither one can admit it first.
Because then that person looses. You could be stuck in this zone for years. There are only two ways out. Either you move up to the "official" zone. Or you get downgraded to "friend with benefits" zone. Or you are just done. Totally. Its a scary fate.

Half the day is spent holding yourself back. You compose a million sensitive ass text messages in your heard that you never send. For fear that too much "love" will turn them off.
You make plans with other friends, just to be able to keep your distance. Even though the whole time you're at the bar sipping that martini, all you want to do is go home and call him and eat ice cream and dream about that little place on his neck.

You dont want him to date anyone else. But you can't actually say that. You don't want him to feel "trapped" and revolt. You dont want to make any sudden movements that will scare him away, to never return.

You want this to be 5th grade. Where you get passed a note in the middle of Social Studies and it says "will you be my girlfriend. Circle one. Yes or No."
And you think, and draw your circle, and the rest is history.

You want this to be the animal kingdom. Where you pick someone to mate with, and then fiercely fight for the rest of your life to feed them, keep them safe, and shut down every other lionesses attempt to fu#k your king.

But this is not a bad episode of The Wonder Years, or a Disney animated film.
This is real life. With real hearts. And real hurts.

I dont know how to get out of this zone. This blog is actually seeking advice.
I sit here with our black and white photobooth laughs, ticket stubs, all this evidence of memories and love being built.
And i dont know how to keep it.

Dear Blog Readers and Insiders:
How do you get out of the "where do we go from here zone."
Without doing too much to scare him away, or not doing enough and risk loosing him to another.

Caring is Creepy.

::W.W.S.D. (what would Sade do)::

2010-01-11T17:03:00.000-08:00

I fell in love with Sade when I was about 8. I'd never heard my father make a comment about any other woman besides my mother (and still haven't to this day) and there he was going on and on about the beauty of the woman. Naturally (because I was born with that nagging jealous bone all women have) I had to take a look at what fraud could be more beautiful than my own mother.
I went through his records and found the Stronger than Pride album. And she was there, staring at me with this look in her eye. This look of unattached strength. This look that she held the answer to every single question in life. And I played the music.
And from then on I was a junkie.
I couldn't get enough.
I held her as my standard of beauty and class for years afterwards.
She has that grace that is now only found in old movies, and black and white portraits from the past.
She is totally elusive. Unreachable. Untouchable. You never know what she's thinking. She's the quintessential sexual woman.
Unlike me, and many other women of today, whose mouths are sometimes better off closed. She never says more than she needs to.
She says it all through her music.
I can't even begin to count the nights I've cried to one of her songs. Or entire albums.
I felt myself in each and every one of them.
None more-so than Love is Stronger Than Pride.
When a situation would come up, and I didn't know what to do, I'd ask myself "what would Sade Do?" LOL I would walk into a bar alone, with my head up and my glass full. And even though the night before I could have been totally heartbroken and unable to move off the couch, you would never know it. I'd be strong, beautiful and untouchable by mere man.

I'd be a goddess.

And so this year Sade returns. Still beautiful. Still strong. Still hypnotizing.
And as always...a soldier of love.

::Tis the Season::

2009-12-09T14:32:00.001-08:00

I’m a mother of the most wonderful little girl on this Earth.
I always imagined I would teach her all the great things about this world.
I pictured trips of us going to Museums. Me teaching her about Impressionism vs. Modernism vs. Realism.
I pictured me quoting Browning and Keats, and her following behind me as we took walks in long gardens.
I imagined all the wonderful stories about love and life and loss I would pass on to her.

I never in a thousand years thought she’d be the one teaching me. I never once thought that my heart had gotten this lost. Until she found it for me.

Most people love the Holiday season. Thanksgiving dinners, shopping for Christmas presents, all the family time. The sugar cookies, the candy canes, the lights.
All the gay Hallmark made for TV movies that move you to tears in spite of yourself.
I however, tend to get a little blue around this time of year.
I hate the cold. I hate that all the leaves are gone. I hate raking the leaves. I hate that the mall is crowded. I hate the weird men in Santa suits that I’m convinced have all just been released from prison and are on some work release program. I hate the dishes that go along with all those family dinners. I hate that my family doesn’t believe in dishwashers.
I hate the Kay engagement ring commercials. I’m just not a fan. The commercialism. The forced tradition. I’m just a Scrooge I suppose.

But when you have a happy, joyous, bright eyed daughter, you have to take a cue from Donnie Deutch and “fake it til you make it.”

On Sunday I baked cookies. And we decorated the tree. And watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas. And all that fab stuff.
And then I cried. Because my tree was so sad and pathetic.
Because I can’t afford to get her half the things she’s circled in that damn Toy Book, Toys R’Us so kindly mailed to us.
Because I couldn’t figure out how to make a Gingerbread house the way my mother did.
Because I am lonely. And I can’t give her the Christmas my mother and father gave me.
The older I get, the more I realize, I had some damn fine parents. And it’s really bothering me that I can’t live up to the standard they set for my brother and I.
A house constantly smelling of cinnamon and love.

And then my daughter. In all her wisdom. Gave me a kiss on the forehead. As if I were her child. And she told me that our tree was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’s ever seen. And that I had mommy magic because I could make the star light up without touching it.

You gotta love a kid that doesn’t understand the meaning of lights on a timer.

And she sat back and ate a cookie and smiled at me. And I felt so small and insignificant in her presence.
She’s not going to care that Santa didn’t bring her a Wii. She doesn’t care if our cable gets disconnected. Or if I owe Capital One thousands of dollars. The only thing she cares about is that I’m happy. And that makes her happy.

Its not the material things that my parents gave me that I remember. Its that love. That sense of safety. That feeling that once I cross through that front door, I’m in a place where nothing on the outside could hurt me. Family. Its not defined by having a mother and a father and a golden retriever. Family is wherever you find your heart.

Even if its just you and your mom on a raggedy couch in an apartment with pink walls and a scruffy tree eating slightly burnt cookies.

::Now exiting the Hoe Zone::

2009-11-22T07:24:00.000-08:00

During a very rare and precious moment of complete peace and calm at work, the ladies and I had a discussion on how long to wait before deciding to "color" with the person you are dating.
When are you safely out the "hoezone".
Hoezone (n.)
1. The time period in which you can share your nakedness with the opposite sex, without fear that he may never call back again.
2. The time period in which you are no longer, "that broad, some chick, this bitch, that girl I met" and you actually have a name, place and meaning in someones life.
3. The area between the bar and the dancefloor right before closing time.
4. The black couches in the back at any club, on any given night, after 12am.

and so on and so forth.....

Basically the "hoezone" is the time when you're uncertain about how the person you're dating really "views" you. Give up the cookies too soon, and you will forever be in the hoezone. Sure you can transition out of there, into "jump-off" zone. Perhaps go a few more places up into "possible short-term fling" zone. But it's nearly impossible to go from a "hoezone" into a "potential wife zone" without serious work and dedication.

The general answer to "how long should one wait before coloring" was "whenever the two of you are ready, and it feels right." Which is the wrong answer to tell someone who is as horny as i am. And who has a penchant for drinking a bit much.
That could potentially be an hour after meeting someone.

The second most popular answer was "About 3 months, and or 10 dates, whatever comes first."
Which conjured images of the 40 year old virgin, where he was literally crossing off days on the calendar...i just don't think that's a very mature or normal way to date.

One girl said that she waited 7 months before she gave up the goods. She is now married and pregnant, so I suppose it worked for her. But my vagina is very, very bitchy. I think if I was dating someone "steadily" for 7 months, and all I had was some dry humping and possible "heavy petting" my dry ass vagina would literally get pissed off and dis-attach herself. And I just can't risk that.

People like to quote "The Rules", and Steve Harvey's "book", and all this other "how to get a man" bullshit. But honestly, that shit is not worth the paper it's written on. I could literally, right now, write a 300 page book about the "Do's and Don'ts of dating." We ALLLLLLLL know them. Its common fucking sense.
1. Don't have sex before at LEAST 2 months.
2. Don't do any crazy shit
3. Don't act bitchy, jealous or insecure
4. Make him feel like the most amazing man in the world.
5. Be agreeable in disposition, but not a pushover.
6. Don't be too available...make him chase you a little....
so on so on and so fucking forth.

These rules are ridiculously easy to follow when you meet someone you don't really care too much about. Or are just dating because you "know" you should, i.e. the looks "good on paper" dude.
But when you really meet someone AWESOME. When you have a GENUINE connection. When there's lust and sexual tension and happiness and you get that feeling like you have known that person FOREVER. When they are totally head-over-heels smitten, all those rules take a backseat to your heart and your natural instincts.

And that is what gets you in trouble.

I dont really care though. My only motto in life is to be real. I'd honestly rather be a failure my entire life, by doing things that i actually BELIEVE in, then win a million shallow victories by "trapping" someone or being false.

Eventually all the shit you try to hide in the first few months of dating,is going to come up anyway. Rather just put all my cards on the table now, and save the arguments and drama that will end up destroying us in year 2 or 3.
Not to mention i'm too damn old to wait 7 months for anything.
God forbid we're incompatible in bed. Or he has a small penis. Or some other weird issue (extreme crookedness liable to tear out cervix...etc etc)

So i say, clear the hoezone, put in some work, have some kind of "exclusivity" convo, and then go for it.
Balls to the wall. Or to some other place on your body. Just go for it.

::Music of the Times::

2009-11-03T15:28:00.000-08:00

So I've been thinking a lot about love. No no not another one of those "when will I find love" blogs. But about LOVE. Love of family, community, music. Especially music.
I'm really struggling to decide if music influences our culture, or does our culture influence the music. I suppose it's a bit of both. Which is sad news for our generation.

Our generation (80's babies) grew up in some of the HARSHEST musical times in history.
But our souls were a little softened by the fact that our parents were still spreading that good ole love peace and happiness leftover from the 70's and the frivolous, carefree attitude of the early 80's.
The 90's and beyond have taken us through "gangsta" rap, grunge, soft porn like lyrics in our R&B, and a general lack of actual "love" in all other genres.
We were raised in an era where it was a daily occurrence to have women be referred to as bitches and hoes on the radio. Drugs, violence and money were the prevalent themes.
As they've always been...just not as blatantly.
Gone were the days of "cleverly" disguising those themes with metaphors and poems that "the man" couldn't decipher. From the Beatles, to Bob Dylan, to the O'Jays...all the music of the 70's talked about the same things they do today. Even the early hip-hop of the 80's and 90's have basically the same themes as they do now.
The difference is the BLATANT obvious and unapologetic tone that the songs today have.

The illusion is gone. The mystery. The poetry of the music.
Now you literally just say and do what you want. And the world just accepts that.

I remember when I was 12 my boyfriend broke up with me after 2 weeks because I was scared to french kiss him.
Now girls at 12 are AT LEAST giving blow jobs in the bathrooms at schools. And are proud of it.

It seems this generation has lost its roots with the past. They learn about sex, before learning about the feelings that make you WANT to have sex.
They learn about drug dealers, murders, yachts, diamonds, cars and money, before they learn about who they even are as a person...and their own neighborhood. Their own family.

I remember when I first heard Biggie and LOVING him. And then I remember years later going back and listening again. And really FEELING him. Actually UNDERSTANDING what he was talking about.

There is so much information going into these kids heads, that they aren't ready for. And it makes me nervous that they will never really FEEL any of this.
All this shallow, egotistical, heartless music.
Inventing sex. Going hard. Getting wasted.

No wonder the ideals of marriage, commitment, patience, love and forgiveness are lost.
Boys feel the need to have the most money, the most expensive liquor and the baddest bitches.
Girls feel the need to fuck for all that. And make sure their body stays tight in order to get to the top.

Nothing about education. Nothing about romance.

Throw it in the bag.

I urge everyone to take responsibility in helping kids today understand what's real. And what's fake.
Especially those with children.
Just like our parents forced us to sit down and watch them as they danced like fools to Earth Wind and Fire. We must force those same ideals of fun, happiness, love, life and living on them.
Everything doesnt need to be so gritty and hardcore.

::Sugar Daddy. Not as sweet as you might think::

2009-11-02T16:05:00.000-08:00

We've all said it. Usually after a particularly hard day at work. We sit back with our friends, nice bottle of Reisling, take-out sushi spread out all over our Ikea coffee table, worn out college sweatshirts, memories of days past...and we say "Damn. I just need a sugar daddy. Just stay at home, raise some kids, shop in Nordstroms at noon (before the working womans rush at 6pm) BMW X-5..the whole package."
And we all laugh. Because we're strong independent women etc etc etc. But for a moment..lets explore the idea. Of what it'd REALLY be like to date your friends grandpa.

I. Sex
Pros: Viagra. Wonder drug. Gauranteed long lasting sex, without the extended foreplay. Without the "I'm sorry baby." Without the "oops." Without the "I'll be ready again in 10 minutes."

Cons: Balls. Old saggy wrinkly balls. And I've never actually seen Old Man Balls, but I'm not a big balls fan in general. And I can only imagine they get uglier with age. Not to mention saggy bootys, age spots, bald spots, dentures, gray pubic hair, permanent coffee breath, and all the other downfalls that comes with aging.

II. Dating
Pros: Any man over 50 has the manners of a saint. They treat women like no man in his 20's or 30's ever could. He's from the era that women are special and beautiful and to be cared for. Not this new age "bitch you ight but whatchu doin for ME?" attitude. He will open doors, send roses, let you go first at the buffet table on Sunday mornings. You will feel like Greta Garbo. Or some other beautiful, long gone starlet that men used to fawn over.

Cons: Unless you happen to land a millionaire (which you probably won't unless you're under the age of 25, have less than 5% body fat, are blonde, or brunette with big boobs, etc etc etc) then chances are your "sugar daddy" is really more like a "splenda daddy."* Besides which, if you actually date a millionaire, please believe that money will be tied up for generations to come. All kinds of court battles with his lawyers, his greedy ass kids, his ex-wives etc etc. It's just trouble. So you will be low budget and be forced to live the life of a normal, 65 year old woman. And her budget. Social Security checks won't get you far. Bonus if you find someone who was once in the military. You get that extra government check. But even that won't keep you laced in Prada. Be prepared for breakfast at Cracker Barrel,dinners "out" at Red Lobster and lots and lots of coupons being used from the AARP magazine. If there's a senior discount or "buffet" available, you'll be there. Guaranteed you'll be at the VFW every friday night. And yes you may be the finest bitch in there,but still, you will be there.

III. Those cuddly nights home together
Pros: Ahhh security. And what woman doesnt like coming home to a nice faithful man, and a wonderful warm home. Get some nice dinner cooking on the stove and sit down wiht a glass a wine and talk about your day. Hopefully he was drafted in Vietnam and you can hear cool war stories. You'll get to hear first hand accounts of the Kennedy administration, Nixon, Watergate, Woodstock, the Civil Rights Era, and all that great shit you only see second hand on the History channel. You will be entertained for hours with his long drawn out stories about the past. Or at least sleep well listening to them. Plus, if worse comes to worse, old men have a virtual CandyLand of prescription drugs. You'll become an expert in finding the right mixture of heart pills, glaucoma medication high blood pressure pills, and vodka. Ahh serenity.

Cons: Too many to name. Trying to explain how email works, what the fuck twitter is, why Reality TV is so big, who Souljah Boy is, what is Kanye's deal. Annoying. Constantly bitching about the cost of things. Wearing those Lee high waist light wash jeans. The tucking in of all tee-shirts. Just the general culture clash between the two of you. Having to be home in time to watch CSI with him. Waking up at the crack of dawn for no damn reason. The in and outs of living with a senior citizen are really draining. And not to sound morbid, but he does really need all those pills. One day its his knees, the next his back, then his liver...everyday a new ailment. And you, of course, must be the supportive wife. Always there to stand by your man. Even when he's in his little motorized scooter at the mall. You made a vow. Now you have to deal.

I could really go on and on. There are pros and cons in all relationships. Good things and bad.
Dating a doctor, dating a drug dealer, dating a Target manager. Each of these all have their own ups and downs. Same as dating an older man.
I for one, don't need a sugar daddy. Though it might be nice to two-step to the O'Jays, with someone who probably actually still has their records, on vinyl, I would love to have a bright future.
I will like to make new memories with someone, instead of always living with someone elses.
Sugar daddies are great. For the right playmate. Or if by some poor fortune, you didn't graduate high school and have few options left in life.
I for one, will continue to have faith in these men my own age. Until of course I'm old enough to be a cougar...and then game on.

*I'd like to give proper credit of the term "splenda daddy" to my fellow Project Mayhem cohort and friend @wildchild22. It's been copywritten. So don't steal it.

::Death to LOL::

2009-10-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

I'm done with the LOL. It's dead to me. The LOL is the biggest lie ever created on the internet. A bigger lie than those emails from your "cousin" in Africa who happens to be a king,and passed away and would like to send you a million dollars, if you kindly send your SS # and bank account information naturally..so the money can be deposited.
Bigger lie than eHarmony claiming they can find your true love in 6 months (they couldn't even find one match for me lol).
Bigger lie than all those penis enlargement ads, free diet pill gimmicks, and real estate schemes to buy acres of land in the Florida swamplands.

LOL sucks for two reasons.

1. Nobody laughs that fucking much. I dont care if you're Tom fucking Cruise. And you're all smiles and grins and high off of those Scientology Cosmo's laced with coke. You don't laugh out loud ALL DAY LONG. After EVERY sentence.
I'm the biggest abuser of the "lol" so I'm saying this, while also yelling at myself.
Most things during the day deserve a smirk at the most. Maybe a little chuckle. A big grin and a head nod. A little giggle inside your head. But hardly ANYTHING, ACTUALLY makes a motherfucker laugh out loud. Especially at home alone on your computer. Or at work. Or driving while texting on your cell. (well all do it, stop being a stickler for the law...eff what Tyra Bank says. I can name at least 5 more dangerous things to do behind the wheel of a car than text. And I think I've done them all at least once.)

Anyhow I digress. So LOL is a lie because you're not really LOL'ing. And that's just false.

The bigger reason while LOL is a lie, is because you use it to clean up ANY fucking inappropriate comment you might make via text/im/etc.
For example:
"Yeah you're kinda hot. But you don't have an ass like your momma. LOL"
- No sir. There is no LOL there. You clearly saw my moms ass, compared it to mine,and made a mental note that came out disguised in an LOL fog. LOL can't clean up that statement.

Or, (and these are actual texts by the way)
"Yeah you know...I still love you. I just regret we never had anal sex. LOL"
- WTF sir?? Flag on the play. Really? You think you can just clear up that disgusting ass demoralizing comment with an LOL? I'm sorry. That is just no excuse.

I'm so tired of it. I find myself doing this everyday.
I say something, semi-controversial. So I add a little "lol" at the end. So no one takes it too deeply.
Or I try to tell someone I miss them, and I throw in a "lol" to make it seem less "girly and emotional".

LOL is the virtual equivalent of being a doctor. Or a cop. Or a judge. It gives you ultimate carte blance in saying the most fucked up things in life, and not getting in trouble for it. Because you have a degree, and it's just "the way it is." LOL is the quintessential passive aggressive move.

LOL is the ultimate cop out. And I'm tired of it.
Man up America. You wanna be a prick? You wanna just blurt out random comments about my momma, his momma, someones momma? Don't hide behind the LOL. Just say it. If I actually laugh out loud in "real life" I'll text you back.

::Public Service Annoucement::

2009-10-24T15:52:00.000-07:00

This is a public service announcement.
Brought to you by the makers of Christina, and Christina's heart. Supplying the world with pure joy since 1981.

When I get ready to go out there are a few things that happen.
Step One is usually digging through my closet, desperately trying to find an outfit that makes me look: smart, skinny yet big-bootied, sexy but not slutty, stylish but not trendy, approachable but not accessible. It's too much.
THen comes the hair. 180 degree heat to straighten it. Resulting in horrible burns when the iron slips. Dry split ends. Bathroom smellin like burnt hair.
Perfume..make-up...
drinks. drinks drinks drinks. Because everything looks better in my mirror after at least 3 grey goose and cranberrys.

i go out. I see everyone else who went through the same exact steps. Looking fabulous. Putting their best foot forward.

It's easy to be amazing for one night. It's easy to be that girl who's happy. Who flirts just enough, smiles just enough. Laughs. Tells jokes. Dances.

I don't want to sound fucked up, but its easy to be fake.

But that's just game. Every decent woman who's over 25 knows game.
And game recognize game. That's why, at this point,its motherfucking pointless.

The only thing in this world that separates me (or you) from everyone else in that club is my heart. What you hold in your heart, is what you are.
Not that metallic eyeshadw from MAC.
Not those dope ass boots from some cute little boutique.
That makes you feel like the shit for 2 hours.

It's what you hold in your heart that keeps you company on that ride back home from the club.

I am emotional. I do the DUMBEST shit in the world. I do everything I know I shouldn't.
I know how I should react. I know what i should, or should not say.
I know how to make it seem like shit doesnt effect me.

But I'm tired of that. i'm tired of the basic facade of it all.

My heart is full. It's thick. Like my laugh. Or my thighs.
And I can not apologize for any of it.
I can only hope that the person who loves me eventually will also love that.

Too much time is spent thinking and pondering and second guessing ourselves.
Endless conversations about "what did he mean by this?" "what should I wear here" "why didn't he call back."

It's a waste of time.

I am not a Stepford wife. I will trip. I will cry. I will be hilariously funny...and then melancholic. It's because that's all in me.
And its all real.

I will never be untrue. I will never be unfaithful. I will never be fake. But that also means, I will never be perfect.

I know that in my heart, it will pay off one day.
I also know that in the meantime I will be hurt a thousand more times until I find that.

So to those of you who are reading this. No, I don't think I've ever been in love.
Because I must admit that I don't think true love ever ends.

Nothing will ever happen to make me wake up and look at Olivia and tell her that, although she's been an amazing daughter, and I think she's a wonderful person, I just can't handle her drama sometimes and I need to focus on myself.

And nothing will ever make me look at the man I love and say to him that same dumb shit.

So yes I'm a wonderful woman. And yes I find love.

But it will be difficult and I will not be perfect. And you will want to choke the shit out of me sometimes.

But I urge you. To look into my eyes and into my heart. And realize the only reason I do the shit I do, is because I feel it.
If I didnt care, I wouldn't care...and I would take a sip of my wine, roll my eyes, and walk away.

So please I urge you. When you see me out. Don't try and holler. If you already know you just want to fuck and keep it moving...then don't even bother.

I'm not 21 and I've been down this road many times before.

So I say, publicly, I'm not pressed.
All or nothing. In or out. I dont play.
ANd if that means I'm alone forever, so be it.

::Halloween is for suckers::

2009-10-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

Halloween is fast approaching.
Once again I'm stuck in the same dilemma. What costume to buy.
I don't understand why every costume for women has to be "hooker."
Instead of the actual word "hooker" they use "sexy".
"sexy nurse."
"sexy french maid"
"sexy firefighter."
"sexy police woman"
Have you seen NYPD uniforms? There is NOTHING fucking sexy about them.
They do not include fishnets.
And the handcuffs and gun and riot sticks are not pink and furry and covered in lace.

So then you go to a club in your hooker schoolgirl/milkmaid/devil costume, and the mayhem begins.
First of all, [and not just on Halloween but in general] what is up with white women getting all bi-sexual when they get drunk?
I'll never get that.
In order to get a man's attention are you really willing to resort to grinding up on your best friends ass.
Do you really think said man, will appreciate a long lasting meaningful relationship after he's seen you and your girl Susie rubbing your boobs together during some already overtly sexual 50 cent song?
Does he really think he's going to bring both of you home, after you begin smacking her ass to Britney's gimme more?
whatever. I digress.

So you're in your sexy crazy skanky outfit and you're trying really hard to be comfortable.
But there's just no way not to feel butt ass naked.
And the more drunk you get, the more that cheap polyester fabric that shit is made of, starts to sweat and stretch out and fall apart.
The fishnets inevitably gets a hole.
someone burns your hat with a cigarette.
you almost pee yourself trying to remove your costume after your 6th bacardi and coke.
and no matter how much you try, you will never leave the club, looking like whatever sexy skanky crazy costume you came in dressed up as.

And white men.
Why do you always use this opportunity to dress up as a black man?
What is that about?
I bet you I will see about 32 Flavor Flav's, 28 "gangstas", 16 "pimps."
And not to say only black men are pimps.
I'm sure there's a slim cracker somewhere uptown with a gang of hoes.
But I've never seen one.
And I've seen plenty.

Just be something normal for once. Not some ghetto stereotype.
Bring it up a level.
Be a McDreamy doctor.
Be an overly aggressive lawyer.
Be a constantly aggravated and pissed off accountant.
Be something you know how to be.
And, under no circumstances, should you ever use the "n" word. I dont care if you did come dressed up as Eazy E.

::Identity and Falsehood::

2009-10-24T07:20:00.000-07:00

I've been having these ridiculously scary dreams lately. I wake up in a cold sweat, usually around 3 am, and immediately race to consult my "dream book"...which is this torn up ancient ass book I stole from my grandma years ago. It's so old that the type on the pages are starting to smudge together.
All the dreams have the same theme. They're all about "loosing my identity". Or "battling against falsehood." Lots of masks, robberies, and beheadings.
It's really fascinating stuff.
I consulted my doctor. I thought for sure I'd be able to get some prescription sleeping pills out of the deal at least. He advised me that the nightmares are coming from stress and anxiety, and that the pills would only add to that. And to not drink alcohol before bed. And to meditate and exercise and shit.
Which to me is the biggest Catch-22 i ever heard of.
I'm stressed, so I drink and worry. I get nightmares from the stress. So I can't sleep. So I'm tired. So I dont feel like exercising. Then I stress about NOT exercising lol. It's a whole process.

At the end of the day I love my dreams. They probably don't really mean anything. But what they do, is make me sit back, and think about what they "could" mean.
It forces you to reflect on the things that have happened during the week and how these dreams could be trying to tell you something.

And my dream goddess book is right. I am fighting against loosing my identity and falsehood. It's a daily struggle down here in the suburbs.
My biggest fear is that I'm going to turn into one of those suburban moms, who wear Crocs 24/7, and buy their clothes from BJ's, along with 62lb bottle of Tide. I am scared of mini-vans, sweat pants and coupons.

And at the same time,I envy these people. These people with families and stocks and homemade pies cooling off in the windowsill.
These people who have managed to achieve their American Dream of a white pickit fence.

People like me try to make fun of them, and mock their bad fashion and bad dye jobs.
People like me end up alone at 75 with a dope collection of stilletos i can no long wear because of my damn arthritis.

::U Con, I Con,He really Cons...::

2009-10-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

I fell asleep after ingesting: 36 chicken nuggets, 2.5 liters of white wine that was consumed out of a box,with a nifty little keg spout, one random blue pill, and the amount of tar used to pave small roads in New Hampshire via Newports.
I awoke, ingested some caffine to coat my stomach and hit the road to visit my brother up at UConn. No make up. Plaid shirt. Ponytail. Huge hungover sunglasses, (because a fabulous pair of sunglasses makes up for all other wardrobe failures) and hit the road with my best friend (in heels and D&G of course) and my daughter. In a matching plaid shirt and leggings. Because in my mind we're the same age. Both 16 lol. (I averaged her 5 with my eternal 26)

We arrive in Storrs Connecticut in a whirlwind of culture shock. My ever blackening lungs almost collapsed under the weight of fresh farm air, and healthy cow poop aromas.
My brother, aka "The Golden Boy" (who, amongst other things, is on the boxing team, the anchor of the campus news station, plays intermural basketball, has a 4.0 so far, amazing green eyes and can literally do no wrong in life.) is all too happy to see this motley crew arrive for him. Against the perfectly manicured campus background, we must have painted the most vivid portrait of reality he's seen in a while. We brought a little bit of home to him, and his new world.

The thing that hit me the most were all the beautiful kids. The beautiful, fit,happy blonde girls jogging around. The perfectly pec'd football dudes going to the gym. The optimism in my brothers voice as he gave us a tour. All those buildings, all named for people who have accomplished things I couldn't even dream up. All those books, study halls, happy happy shiny people.

But the girls. The damn girls stayed on my mind. I felt like an 86 year old pervy man, thinking "damn she must look amazing naked."

I haven't looked "amazing" naked in a minute. My body is struggling hard to maintain itself against the horrors of childbirth, Burger King and countless gallons of coffee injected, but it's loosing a slow painful battle.
I also haven't had their sense of optimism and hope in quite some time.
A lot happens in your life between 18 and 28. A literal decade of failures, triumphs, heartbreaks, lusts, regrets, embarassments, and on and on and on.
A decade of life that seperates the happy shiny fresh faced Connecticut girls, and the weathered, cold hearts of ours.

The four of us traveled across campus and soaked it all in. The future of my daughter,the past of me and Emily, and the present reality of my brohter.
3 different generations all together on Family Day.

I must say I was touched. As I sit here tired and lonely and ready to face yet another Monday in corporate wasteland, I will remember those happy blonde girls with their breast cancer awareness tee shirts. Bright little "save the tatas" pink shirts all skipping around campus. And I will try and save some of that energy in my pocket. For the nights like tonight. Where my own slowly sagging tatas need saving.

Stay young America.

::This ain't no damn fairytale.::

2009-10-01T16:26:00.000-07:00

So I'm at a family BBQ. End of summer. Sitting with my aunts and uncles. No one under the age of 70. And I look around in amazement at the lives that are around me. Just the pure LIFE. I mean, these are people who have lived through wars. Plural. Depressions, endless political administrations. Decades upon decades of music, fashion, technology, and of course love. Endless love. Love affairs, unrequited love, lost love, regretful love, all the kinds of love on this earth.
And in the corner of the balcony stood my Aunt Brownie. 78 years old. Never married.
Lives in Vegas. She was wearing leopard print heels, and taking swigs of some kind of ginger brandy out of a flask. And yes I know it sounds like a character in a novel, but this is a real life person.
And me, somewhat buzzed off of the 86 miller lites my family mistakenly thinks is the grand puba of all beers, I ask her the question I've been meaning to ask her my whole life. "Why were you never married. Aren't you lonely. I mean, you are old as hell. Don't you want someone to be there with you. "
Yes i know that wasn't the "smoothest" way to ask it. But hey, she's family. And she knows me. And she knows what i meant.
And she looked at me. And she told me from the bottom of her heart..why not.
Basic reason really. She just never wanted to. She always had her own money. Her own place. Her own life. She never wanted anyone she would have to "answer" to. Never wanted anyone to fill her life with drama. She told stories of lost loves. OF friends who are now divorced, or widowed. Of the heartache she's been through.
And I saw myself.
And she said to me. "I have been loved. And I have loved. And that is enough. There is not one person, not even you, who I would want to look at every single day of my life without making me want to smack the shit out of them. So I stay single, and I stay peaceful."
After which her brother, My Uncle, the resident "playboy" of the family, told lots of salacious tales about her,and her men, and her crazy antics of her youth.
But I tuned out. And saw the happiness that was in her eyes. The peace. And the calm.
And also the pride. The pride of being a black woman from the South who had made it to the age of 78 without ever needing a man to do shit for her.

And it was her that gave me some of my strength back.

I am currently involved in some bullshit ass "dating" thing. My friends always joke that I have a "roster" of men to choose from.
It's only because they don't realize, that it literally takes 9 players on a team, to even try and compete with the 1 man I've loved. The heartbreak that I've been through, over and over again, probably has scarred me for life.I can't even deny that, or hide it at this point. It comes out when i least expect it. A little burst of craziness will show its ugly face in the middle of a perfectly fine dinner. Or I'll burst out in tears at the smallest little argument, knowing very well that those tears were meant for another man, at another time, that I'm still living with.

I'm tired of the bullshit ass dating thing. The, do I call? Does he call? Do we have sex? Do we wait? Does he like me? Does he want to marry me? Does he tell these same things to other women? Do I REALLY want him? blah blah blah.
ITs boring really.

I've just been doing me. For about two years now. And i keep falling. And getting back up. This summer I fell really hard. Took a little longer to get over that one...but i have.

And it just seems like this is how life will be for the rest of my life.

I sit here in my apartment that i pay for, on the computer that i bought, with the cable that i pay for, in the clothes that I bought with my money. And I realize, all i need is someone to have sex with.
That's pretty much the only thing i can't do myself.
.....and even doing that myself sometimes is better than with a man.

So I still secretly wait for some amazing man to come and sweep me off my feet. And get married. And do all that gay shit with. Bed and breakfasts. Cute little picnics. Sweet snuggling in the middle of the night. Someone who actually loves you for who you are. Someone to help you get through this ridiculous thing called life, with some sense of sanity.
But I realize it's gonna take a helluva man to deal with me. And God help the man who does. And until that day...I'm ok.

::A real bitches guide to getting over it::

2009-09-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

I recently found myself in a very strange state of mind.
I, yes the great cynical I, was heartbroken.
This was quite a new emotion for me. As I hadn’t actually ever been "dumped." I suppose 26 years could be considered a good run.
So anyhow, I needed advice. It was my third day wearing the same ripped up hoodie, and faded black leggings. I’d run out of shampoo, and my hair was a greasy, stringy cigarette flavored rats nest. But such trivial things didn’t matter to me anymore. I needed help. So I went to the bookstore...and scoured the internet.
I was sure that some wise person before me had written a "self-help" book. And that I would be saved.

However all I found were the same books, with the same advice, by fat women with huge bleach blonde hair, sprayed into some overly-processed 1986 style with, what must have been, the last bottle of Aqua Net to be found on Earth. None of these women looked like they’d even been fucked in the past decade. I was drunk, scaring away little children in the Barnes and Noble with my horrible smell, and I was pissed. Is there nowhere to turn to in this great time of help?

So I went home and devised my own list of "rules."

So for all my people who have found themselves crying at 4 a.m., listening to Dido, trying to kill themselves with chocolate and nicotine, for those whose friends have long stopped answering the phone because they were tired of hearing about your sad "what does it all mean" speeches. This is for you.

Step 1: Cell Phones are Evil.
You MUST NOT call this motherfucker. Never ever ever ever ever. And you MUST NOT answer his calls. I don’t care if your mother is on fire in the living room, and the only person in the world with a fire extinguisher is him. You can not call. Let her burn.
If you give in on this first very simple step...all else will be invalid. He should have no clue that you were even thinking about him. He should think that you’re in Brazil right now having massive orgies with oiled down models. He should not be able to think "ahhh this bitch is at home crying over me right now. I knew she couldn’t live without me." Blah. Besides which, you know if you call, he’s not going to answer. So then you’ll be the one sitting waiting for him to call you BACK. Which is just a slow torturing of the soul. Don’t do it to yourself.

Step 1a: All Contact must be Killed.
No text messages. No stalking his myspace/facebook page. No driving past his house to see if he’s home. No going to sit in his favorite diner to see if he’ll walk in.
All of these things will make you look and feel pathetic. And could possibly land you with police charges.
Remember there’s nothing charming or cute about being a stalker.

Step 2: Drugs are your friends.
Forget about whatever Regan-era "say no to drugs" bullshit that’s been drilled into your head.
You will not survive without a little help from your "friends." I recommend vodka, xanex and weed. But everyone has their own little remedy. Sleeping pills are also recommended to get through those long cold nights, when you’re sitting at home and trying to convince yourself that THIS time it could work. That if you just call and talk about things..then you could go back to the old "glory days"when you were in love and happy and everything was good.
The one thing to remember, no drug use should continue past 3 days in a row. Then you become an "addict" And you’ll end up walking down the street with bloody shoes and no bra on, trying to find a dealer. Think Amy Winehouse. Besides which, too many mind-influencing additives can be counter-productive. In a state of drunkness, or highness, you might hear or see something that reminds you of him...and then you call...and then you’re back to stage 1. Best to do drugs under the influence of friends that can monitor your cell phone.

Step 3: Music will heal your soul.
I will forgive you for playing "good-bye my lover" 30 times in a row the first day. Perhaps a little Sam Cooke to ease your pain. Some deep country blues. But anymore of this self-destructive pity party shit and you’re bound to call him again. There are a ton of "my man left me and now I have no life" shit out there. I don’t recommend this.
You should only be listening to some hard core, fuck the world and everyone in it stuff. Something that will make you break windows and have sex with some overly large tattooed bouncer named Mac.
Might I suggest some N.W.A.

Step 3:: Sex please.
You’ve all heard the saying "the best way to get over the last one, is to get under the next one." I thought this was bullshit. The first date I had after my "break-up" I ended up crying halfway through in the bathroom, wondering how I would ever be able to get over him. But then..I got drunk. And I went out. And I had the best sex I’ve had in the past 2 years. And "HIM" was nowhere on my mind.
Now since I am somewhat slutty...I don’t suggest this technique for everyone. But I can assure you, that if you’re too busy having multiple orgasms, you won’t have much time to think of your ex. And there are better, low calorie things to fill your mouth besides chocolate. Sex is a work-out, a diet, and an all consuming activity guaranteed to make you forget him. Give it a try.

Step 4: Save the world.
Since you can’t possibly have sex all day every day, I suggest filling up your time with really important shit. Like going to the gym. Or buying tons of cute shit you can’t afford with your friends. God made credit for a reason. Some people might recommend "volunteering" on the weekend to some homeless shelter, or some other worthy cause.But I think making yourself ten times hotter, than when you were with him, is the best revenge. I mean really, there are enough pimple faced NYC students trying to build up their resume to help the homeless. You my dear, area fabulous,fierce, feisty feline. Focus on getting a tight ass, and a tighter red dress to match. After all, you’re back on the market now. Make sure you have a high resale price. Nobody wants to buy an old saggy sack of depression.

Step 5: You are the coolest person on this fucking Earth.
You want to go to the movies? Fucking go. You want to get a drink...get on some heels and go. You need to cum...do it yourself. There really is no reason for a man besides pro-creation. Everything else you can do yourself...or with friends.
It might suck, sitting alone in a movie theater surrounded by cute little Abercrombie couples. But just remember, 65% of marriages end in divorce. So the chances are in your favor. And while you’re enjoying your popcorn watching a movie, over half of those couples are sitting there in silent hatred of each other. Better to be alone and happy, then together and slowly dying.

Step 6: Fly Away
After you have made your way through these steps, and are starting to feel a lot better about yourself, and life in general, I suggest getting away. Now I understand that not everyone has a Kimora-like budget and can hop on a jet and fly to Bali. But a greyhound bus to Boston can work just as well. The point is to get away from your "environment." Get away from all the memories..and make some new ones. Life is all about the journey. And the hilarious stories you have to tell when you’re old and half-senile. Make sure your story is good.
Nobody in the nursing home will want to hear about how some motherfucker dumped you and you sat in your house for 8 weeks. But a nice weekend of Vegas debauchery will have those bitches in tears.

Step 7: Friends are there for more than just fashion advice.
This is the time to utilize all your friends. All those years of random chit chat about The Hills. All those shopping trips. All those good happy times. Now it’s time to get some real help from them. Some real advice. The key is, to actually listen to them. Don’t just blab on and on and on about how you feel randomly. Really listen to what they are saying to you. These people know you better than anyone else in the world. And they know what’s best for you. [sometimes] Trust that they only want to see you happy, and let them try. Don’t push anyone away.

To summarize. Don’t call. Don’t think about "it". Don’t even dream about "it." It happened and it is over. Sure there are things you could have done differently, and there are things that he could have done. And I’m sure its quite entertaining to sit alone drunk in your apartment and think of all the ways it could STILL work, if you just tried harder.
But honestly. Wouldn’t it be more fun to just let go of it. Just get all that negative shit out of your mind.And obviously that is easier said then done, and I hate to say this [because this is what all those over-the-hill fat bitches wrote in their books] but time does heal all wounds. And a few weeks from now, you’ll be wondering why you wasted one second of your life on this douche bag.
Plus, he,being a man, has already moved on. And even if he is sending you sweet little "baby baby please" text messages...best believe he will NOT be the crying, mushy,scary looking creature you are. After all he is a man. And men, above all else,care about 3 things in life. Money. Bitches. And taking over the world. With or without you.

Move on.

::Seeing Signs Like Ace of Base::

2009-07-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

So as I go throughout my workday...walking around the office, picking up little bits of gossip, flirting with the cute young interns, stealing peoples snacks out the fridge (no name can't claim) I started seeing all these signs posted around. Most of them were the usual "Emergency Family Leave" laws, and the often used "If you tinkle when you sprinkle please be neat and wipe the seat." Nothing really out of the oridinary.

Until last week. I don't know if there was a sudden change in universal planet alignments, or just my extreme boredem made me venture out into new rooms in this office, but all of these hilarious signs began going up around me.

I'll put up just a few of my personal favorites. It's the little things in life that keep you going folks. Enjoy the small gifts.

"Notice" (found taped on the door of someone's office.)

However...having said weapons, guns or knives are perfectly acceptable before/after being in the office. Very smart.

Rodent Station: Because mice need a place to refuel and recharge too.

"We Test": Just in case you are illiterate. Or don't speak English. (Either which is perfectly fine...as long as you aren't "smokin the reefer") We've provided pictures.
I just want to know what kind of "google image search" words were used to get these graphics. I can just imagine someone in corporate trying to find the appropriate pic for "crack head."

Finally...What you see here, stays here. Just like Vegas. And just like Vegas, please be wary of Herpes...which lasts a lifetime. Also use toilet seat covers, and don't *actually* sleep with any of those underage warehouse workers. Or else, this place will haunt you forever. Muahahahhahah (that was my evil supervillian laugh)

::Swagga like Peg Bundy::

2009-07-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

“Wait wait…but did I look pretty? I mean, it is 4 a.m. Did my outfit hold up?” C.G.
“You’re wearing an animal print. You just immediately sh*t on everybody in there. What is more fierce than that?” E.L.

There’s just something to be said about animal prints. Season after season you see little blurbs about them. Being “in” one year…”out” the next.
Forget that.
There is nothing like wearing (tastefully) the print of a jungle animal lol. It will instantly “sex up” anything. But beware.
There is a fine line between looking “fierce” and looking like Peg Bundy.

I have a crazy obsession with zebra print myself. And this season, there is no lack of it.
I admit that I overdosed a little bit this year. From my blackberry case, to my “cigarette” holder, its hard to find me out without a little bit of grrranimal on me.
I guess it’s pretty much the only pattern that matches my personality. Loud as hell and fun.

But for those a little less “daring” animal prints are a quick easy way to spice up any outfit.
Throw on a hot pink zebra printed scarf with a simple black tee shirt, instant rock star status.
Basic black dress? Throw on some leopard printed 4 inch heels, instant sex kitten.
Boring day at work? Throw all your reports into an oversized printed tote and be on your way.

Life is too short to take yourself seriously. Take a risk. Channel your inner cavewoman. Wear some skins. 

Purple Zebra Print Case for Blackberry Curve 14.95
www.amazon.com/gp/product/B001QFZ8AK

featuring

www.hottopic.com (zebra printed bangles/scarf)

Betsey Johnson "Nika" Pumps
$225.00 www.zappos.com

::Getting your 7 chuckles in::

2009-07-14T08:43:00.000-07:00

Last night my friend spent about 36 min trying
to close his sunroof before it started to rain. The amount of sheer sweat and determination this took was astounding.
I literally had to get out of the car and wait, for fear that some foreign object might dislodge from the roof and hit me in the head. It was so tragic it was hilarious.
As we finally got the 20 year old sunroof shut, we drove off. Only to find a man, who weighed about 350lbs, fall off of his bike. His Wawa shopping bag (no doubt holding the contents of a juicy meatball sub, and diet coke of course) spilled all over the place.
The sight of this man, on the side of the road. I tried so hard not to laugh. But how can you not.

Life is full of these little tragedies. These little things that help you get by.

Like the man this morning who ordered scrambled eggs and pancakes. With a lisp. This huge construction worker, ordering breakfast, with such a small tiny little voice. It was pure comedy.

Not pure comedy: Bruno. Which seemed completely forced from beginning to end. Like a 13 year old wearing a halter top and red lipstick trying to buy Amstel Light, it was just trying way too hard to be something it wasn’t. It must be hard to live up to the great success of Borat. And I do understand the pressure Mr. Cohen was under.
I also understand that it’s hilarious to “push boundaries” and be “controversial”. I laughed throughout the movie here and there. But the overall problem was the main character Bruno. Unilke Borat, the character wasn’t sympathetic. He wasn’t some misunderstood foreigner trying to make it through life.
He was a completely disgusting, self-involved prick trying to become world famous. You just never felt…anything for him. No “rooting for the hero” here.

The best parts of the movie were the parts that really exposed some fundamental flaws in the world. The ignorance of homophobics…and the idea that they can be “cured” into loving women. The absurdity of the “PR” behind all these “celeb charities.” (The scene with the two PR girls was priceless)

I think this movie COULD have been much more. And I’m sure it got edited several times over, and probably was extremely funny before we got the “watered down” version. But less dildos, and more pure comedy were necessary.

::Uptown Girl::

2009-07-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

So I have an admitted obsession with New York City.
I guess it began when I used to skip classes in H.S. to go to central park and rollerblade. There was just something so liberating about it. So free.
I remember being 17 and packing up my little gold Ford Escort with all my clothes in garbage bags, and tons of poetry and journals and books, and moving up there.
For the first week I sat at this little coffee shop in the east village literally drinking espresso until my head exploded while “people watching” and writing naïve little poems.
I had little index cards tucked in my journal with subway directions to all of these places I’d read about. Obscure poets homes. Cute little designer boutiques. Places to get the best pizza.
Walking around the city with no make-up, no heels, a cute little suburban bob and floral skirts, I felt like I had finally found my little place in the world.
I had a boyfriend who was a male model/stockbroker/overbearing control freak. But we were happy for the most part. I would listen to him go on and on about stocks and bonds and all that very important crap, while I tried to perfect the Dominican recipes his mother passed on to me.
And then I somehow found my way into a buying office for a retail store, and my whole life changed.
Suddenly I was opened to fashion, and parties, and this whole “other” life. It was literally like The Devil Wears Prada.
In came the make-up, the stilettos, the fab clothes, the friends, the drinking, the networking, the partying. Out went the housewife. And husband lol.
And for the next 8 or so years, I was New York.
There’s something that comes from the complexity of sitting on a subway next to a stockbroker, next to a homeless person, next to a felon, next to a nurse and so on and so on. Just so many different people together in the same place, but so alone. It’s really beautiful.
You can get lost in the beauty of 5th avenue. Mesmerized by the store windows, everyone rushing by speaking different languages. Staring onto the street your eyes get fuzzy staring at the yellow cabs. The dirt flying up from the buses. The tourists snapping pictures. You think how many times have I been in the background of one of those photos.
It’s easy to find yourself when no one’s looking. Easy to really be yourself when no one else cares.
You can stroll into any bar on any night and start all over. Be a different person. Have a different crowd. Learn new things everyday.
For a person with a.d.d. it’s the most amazing place to be.
The things I’ve seen and done could fill a novel. That I might write one day.
From the shooting, to the eviction, to living in a hotel. The v.i.p. rooms, the Marcy project hallways. Design studios. Fashion shows. Anger management courses. Lol
I think I’ve been everywhere there is to be. And a lot of places I wish I’d never been.
I think about those days now, and I prepare to go back to Brooklyn tonight to one of my favorite clubs, Deity.

de⋅i⋅ty
ˈdi ɪ tiShow Spelled Pronunciation [dee-i-tee] Show IPA
–noun, plural -ties.
1. a god or goddess.
2. divine character or nature, esp. that of the Supreme Being; divinity.
3. the estate or rank of a god: The king attained deity after his death.
4. a person or thing revered as a god or goddess: a society in which money is the only deity.
5. the Deity, God; Supreme Being

New York is my God in some way. The place where I go to clear my head. The place I go to confess sins and forgive myself.
The place where I’d lost so much, but gained so much more. It literally made me who I am today.
For better or worse.
So big ups to Brooklyn. And dollar vans. And stoops. And uptowns. And fitted Yankee caps. Thank you.

::Rehab is for Quitters::

2009-07-06T14:41:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened in a drunken state Tuesday night.
Well not so funny at the time. In fact, I quite literally almost lost my mind.
My beloved blackberry fell victim to an overturned Long Island Iced Tea. Extra Long.
At the time, I was way more upset about the spilt drink. Just assuming that my often abused crackberry would just bounce back like every other time before.
Like an extreme fighting champion my phone has been through sh*t that would rival a steel caged match. Thrown against: sidewalks, walls, dashboards, other people. Dropped down: elevator shafts, out cab windows, down toilets. And every single time, like the true champion it is, my phone has shaken it off and come back for more.
But alas, the final downfall was the sugary mix of liquor. My phone, like us all at some point, just couldn’t bounce back from the damage done after a few too many drinks.

Like a meth addicted spending his first night in a strange hospital bed ,I spent the whole rest of the day lost. Twitching. Restless. Constantly on the phone with T-Mobile. Restarting, resetting, rebooting, recharging. I have a blister on my thumb from trying to push the “on” button for 2 hours straight. I was in denial. All my contacts, all my photos, all my information. Just gone. As was my instant gratification to social networking.
No way to know if someone had tagged me in an unflattering facebook picture. No way to update my twitter followers about the tragic events. No way to randomly chit chat about life and love and lust with random gchat friends who happened to be online at the time. No emails. Nothing. Just blankness.

I went home and found the only phone I had available in the “interim”. The very first sidekick. This thing weighed about 89 pounds. I think I bruised my ear the first time I tried to hold it up to make a call. Not to mention the fact that it couldn’t fit in any of my clutches. Just an unsightly constant reminder of my missing bff.
To add insult to injury someone actually called my phone, the ringtone was Lupe Fiasco: Superstar. The irony was uncanny.

And then night fell and I slept better than I had in months. It was quiet. No interruptions in the middle of the night. No waiting on reply text’s that never came. No waiting for return calls that were placed. It was just me. Alone. And I realized, that’s exactly what I needed.

I didn’t ask anyone for their number for a few days. I had about 10 contacts from my original phone, that were still relevant today. (best friends, parents, the people that loved you before you were cool. The people who were there for you through all of your phones. And all of your different weights, hair colors, and many identity crisis’s, the people who would bail you out of jail at 3am.)

It’s amazing how dependant you become on technology. With no gps on my phone, I got lost going to pick up my friend Friday on the way to the beach. It was so weird to “actually” have to “think” about where I was going. Focus on my driving. Enjoy the sun and the song on the radio.
Too embarrassed to pull out my phone to use it…I actually spent time enjoying my life.
How I longed to update my twitter about all the hilarious things I saw at the beach. But how much more fun it was to actually just enjoy it. Without an audience.
Just laughter between a friend and myself. Something that only the two of us know about.
Jumping in the waves. Laughing. Literally feeling like the ocean was going to carry me away. Feeling the sun on my face without a mobile upload picture. Without someone commenting.
My status would have been “christina is living life. Please, instead of commenting, go live your own and leave me in peace.”

Everyone noticed the difference in me. Without my crutch in my hand, I was more aware. More thoughtful. More “in the moment.”
Not waiting, responding, commenting or following anyone.

Sitting outside last night, having some hummus reading my new book, it dawned on me that life has no audience. I fall victim to the false belief that people actually give a sh*t what you’re doing. I fall victim to putting too much worth in what other people think of me. Too much time is spent wondering if people like me. Wondering if I will ever be accepted for who I am. Flaws and all. Most of the time I spend regretting the decisions that I’ve made in life. Looking back at the “what if’s”. What if I had just gone home after the first bar that night. I would still have my phone, and a few other things lost that night.
But sitting there watching cars zoom past with the self-important drivers on their bluetooths, I laughed. And I didn’t care anymore.

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. -Emerson

I am already accepted. I know myself, and I love myself. Take away all my phone contacts. Take away all the pictures, the parties, the updates, the emails. Take away the blogs. And I’m still myself.
I do dumb sh*t daily. That I will continue to do. I am too emotional. I think too much. I react too quickly. I love too deeply. But in everything to do I am real.
The most important thing I learned this week was that I have a real amazing life.

I now have my phone back. And I will be updating again. I will be randomly passing time at work again. But never again will I be so dependant on something so materialistic.
At the end of the day, the people who want me, know exactly where to find me. And each night I will turn off my phone and all the nonsense that goes with it.

::Not the daddy::

2009-06-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

On a lighter note. Lets all be happy that this man is not your father.
Oh and please, see below article on proper condom use.
See you on Maury :)

::Fathers, Harems and Brown Eyes::

2009-06-21T07:03:00.000-07:00

Ahh Fathers Day.
A day to honor the wonderful men in our lives.
The ones who have passed on their great legacies unto us. Given us their last names.
Provided us with a roof over our head and food on the table.
The ones who have sent us to therapy for our "daddy" issues. sidenote: Hello unavailable, emotionally distant, workaholic men. Please thank my Dad for making me fall for you. lol

My dad was very typical. Cold. Distant. Left all the "child raising" shit to my mother.
So I find it strange that he's actually had a bigger influence on who I am than she has. I find myself physically and mentally more and more like him every day that I get older.

I guess when you spend your whole life trying to chase after someone's love, you get to know then on a unique level.

I remember me going through his bookshelf. Reading every single book he had. Going through and stealing all his old records. Reading his old newspaper articles from the Korean War. Looking through his photo albums. Putting together the pieces to the puzzle. My writing, my sarcastic sense of humor, my love of jazz and blues, my need to be alone...even if it means pushing someone else away...that's all from him.

I respect my father more than anyone I've ever met. I respect how brief he is. In this age when things get talked about to death. When people go on and on and fucking on about thier "emotions" and "feelings" and "some things on my mind." I appreciate his old school stoicism. Like a tortured Russian author, he walks around with this permanent scowl. You know his heart has seen things that would break a normal person. Two of his brothers committed suicide. Wars in Korea, race riots @ the border in Berlin. How much death and hatred he must have seen. The very lowest of society's evils.
Even now working in a prison, it amazes me he could be around all that anger and repression and sadness all day, and come home and eat a turkey and cheese sandwich like it was nothing. He's never said one word about any of it.
For every problem he has a solution. For every insult he has a come back. I've never seen him weak. Never one tear.
And I know that that's not healthy. But there's something about it I admire.

Maybe it's because its the one part of him I could never get. IT's the one part of my personality that I get from my mother. The emotional shit. The crying. The wanting to make everyone love me. Wanting to make everyone love each other. The peacemaker. The going to the end of the Earth for some man who could give a shit. My loyalty. My weakness is from her.

So as I sit here, listening to my special Fathers Day Playlist (Hendrix, Muddy Waters, O'Jays, Parliment Funkadelic and on and on...) I think about my daddy.
Who didn't teach me how to ride a bike. Wasn't at any of my tennis matches. Never took pictures with me on prom night. Has never shown any interest in my writing, my job, my friends. Who blames me not having a man, on my weight. But who has always been there when I've been at the end. To snap me out of it.
At the first sign of a tear, he can cut it out of it with one word.
As much as I hate it, he is who I am. I even have his eyes. Which, are of course, the windows to my soul lol. He above all else, is my strength.

I remember one of the first nights I went out in NYC. I was about 18 and was hanging out at the time with a much older uber drug dealer from the upper east side.
We all went out to this club, and all of a sudden the doors closed and locked, all these curtains came down from the ceiling like we were in some Moroccan Harem. All these strippers came rushing in from the club next door. Plastic pants and 10 inch heels clicking and swishing all around.
Drinks started lining up on the bar. The DJ started playing some weird off beat electro-euro trash. And then the lines of coke appeared. Just a whole 10 ft bar long of it. And all of this laughter and smoke and drinks and sex was going on all around me. Me at 18. With my cute little bob haircut and my sensible flats. And my "boyfriend" picked me up on the bar,and looked into my eyes. And he told me to stop looking so scared. And i told him I wasn't. That I wasn't bothered by any of this. And he told me my eyes were too beautiful to lie. And I said that I hated my eyes. That I had my dad's eyes.
And he gave me a kiss and he said "no matter what happens in life, you can never show fear in your eyes. you have your fathers eyes, which means you can see the world through him. whenever you feel alone or lost always remember, you are your fathers eyes. And men don't cry."

lol which is actually funny in retrospect. And just some coked out bullshit.
But I felt it. And I use it to this day to get me through.

::Wu-Tang Clan aint nothin to f*ck with::

2009-06-19T03:48:00.000-07:00

"I just want to go back to the Wu-Tang years. Those were the greatest."
-myself. Wednesday night.

"You're such a 90's baby."
-P.M. few weeks ago.

There is no doubt in my mind that the years between...ahhh lets say 92-98 were the best for music. (not of ALL times of course. But the best years I actually LIVED through.)
I dont know if it was just a combination of me being an adolescent..which means that I "FELT" everything so strongly. (I remember when i lost all the eyelashes in my right eye from a freak eyelash curler incident, and refused to go to school for a week.)
Or maybe it was just because that's when artists were still able to make money by actually RECORDING an album. (none of this online download shit. 1.99 per song b.s. on itunes. I still give Pearl Jam huge kudos for taking the first stand against Napster. I only wish more artists would have followed.)

These were the times when everything was working in conjunction together. When Mtv actually played *gasp* videos. When Vh1 was still the "old people's" music channel.
When radio played real shit. (Put it in your mouth, would NEVER get any radio time these days.)

These were also the days of rap GROUPS. Which is what i miss the most. Not just some simple "collabo" on someone's track. (think the Drake/Lil Wayne invasion right now.)
This was an actual group of friends, combining all their skills together, and coming up with some of the most creative shit I've ever heard.
Wu-Tang
The Lox
Naughty by Nature
Bone Thugs
Junior Mafia
Cypress Hill

and on and on and on and on. Back to the days of Run DMC and NWA and digital underground. Public Enemy. Even (shake your head if you must) The Beastie Boys.

I've said it before, and I;ll say it again...I'm a fan of voices. And of lyrics.
And there is nothing more amazing, then hearing a track with each person contributing a different sound. A different technique. But having it all come together like a beautiful puzzle. Cash Money Millionaires.
The different styles. the different personalities. The levels they took each other to. It's almost like a battle rap on every track. Like each person tried to out do the person before. To produce some great motherfucking music.

In my opinion no group did this better than Wu-Tang. Deep melodic versus from Method Man, then into a more high pitched up tempo Cappadonna verse. Man. You just FELT it.
Plus it was like a bonus...you got like 5 people's LP's for the same $10.

But now things have changed.
Everybody went solo. Some have been successful...others not so much.
Break out stars. Break out albums.

Now it's all about ego. Shine. Spotlight. Money.
Everyone feels they can carry a whole album on their own. Everyone believes that they personally have sooo much to talk about...that they don't need any help. They know it all. No need for input on beats, lyrics, production, video concepts.
No need to split that check.

Except that...things start to sound a little "too" studio. over produced.
every Wu-Tang song feels like they literally just sat around high in someone's basement apartment and wrote some shit down and put it on a tape. Grimy. Dirty. And real.
The people that came up with you, can keep you in check. They'll keep you real and grounded. And they're concentrate on the music.
Lil Wayne is amazing..but he's soooo much more amazing as a PART of a greater song. (hence all the "guest tracks.")
He has good lyrics. He has a good 16 bars. But to put in a CD and listen to ONLY his voice for 2 hours. Just looses some of that greatness.

::Case of the Monday's::

2009-06-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

You are stuck at work. All day. Especially Monday. After a wonderful weekend. And all you want to do is be anywhere but here.
You actually drive past the inmates from the county jail picking up trash on the side of the road, and get a bit envious. At least they get to be outside all day.
You however, are stuck within the confines of your cubicle. Or in my case, make-shift desk stuck against a wall.
You sit there and watch everybody rushing back and forth. Busy important calls. Faxing, receiving faxes. Computer keys flicking away a mile a minute. (Or more specifically 60 wpm)
Just a fury of office excitement. Everyone all cracked out from that awesome “office” coffee. From the “community” coffee pot. Lord only knows when the last time that thing has been cleaned. Lord knows what kind of discounted defective coffee beans were put into that chemical mess of black tar you are drinking.
And you sit it the middle of this and just CAN NOT get motivated.
You phone is ringing and you just CAN NOT for the life of yourself, pick it up.
You glance down at the clock on your computer…and its only 11:18 am. 7 more hours.
Wars have started in less time. 7 hours might as well mean 8 weeks in office space time. You could conceive a child, carry it to term and delivery it, in the vast amount of time left; staring at your blank computer screen.

However. There are a few tips. A few little ins and outs to help you get through. While eventually you will ACTUALLY have to do some work (I mean, we are in a recession and everything. You don’t need to get fired for your laziness.) but you will never have to do an actual full 8 hours of it.

Number One: Bathrooms are your safe haven. Use them. Love them. Bring a Magazine.
Bathrooms are like my churches. No matter what horrendous crime you commit outside in the “real world” you can always run into the bathroom screaming “sanctuary!!!!” and receive peace and forgiveness. Like Quasimodo, I sit up in my sanctuary and hide out…just watching life pass me by.
You can spend a good hour in the bathroom if you’re really skilled.
20 minute to apply make-up.
20 minutes to fiddle around with your hair.
10 minutes texting/answering emails/social networking from the stall (where the best work is done.)
10 minutes reading the new Elle.

Anymore time than that and people will begin to talk. I try to break down the hour into several 20 minute breaks a day. It’s less obvious that way.
And yes it does look odd to walk into the bathroom with your cell and magazine. And yes people will think you suffer from some weird gastric intestine disease.
But who cares. Just walk out holding your stomach in pain each time, and I doubt they’ll even come up with the balls to question you.

Number Two: Smoke breaks are not just for smokers.
You seem them go down stairs in their little “cliques”. The smokers. With their packs of Marlboro’s and cigarette lighters. Full of happiness and relief.
Why are they so happy? They’re killing their lungs. They’re going to die before they reach 60. All very true…but they also are the most stress free people in the office. And hey stress kills also.
If you’re not willing to go and pick up an addictive (and expensive) habit like smoking…you can still go down with them.
Everyone has a right to a “break.”
Plus the smoking club gets all the best gossip. I don’t know why this is, but they have their own little “secret” network among the other office workers.
They stick by the belief that those who spread cancer together, stay together.
You will instantly make friends, laugh and kill at least 10 minutes at a time.
I suggest doing this 4 times a day.
Combined with the bathroom trick, you’ve just shaven off 2 hours from your work day.

Number Three: You will never survive unless you do a little networking. Socially that is.
Join it all. Myspace, Facebook, Twitter. Anything. Everything that gives you access to the “outside” world.
The more time you spend talking to other people. People who are happy and can keep you entertained with jokes, and stories about the weekend. Set up plans for the new week. Anything to make you forget that you are at work is good.
I do NOT recommend using your company computer/email server to do this on. Invest in a dope phone. Blackberry and iPhones are my two picks.
Anything where you can have all the comforts of your home computer.
The only difference is that at work you can’t be naked, sipping on Bacardi and Diet Coke while you surf the net.

Check your horoscope. Evaluate that dream you had last night. Read blogs. Write blogs. Youtube search your favorite movie clips. Anything and everything that can be done with your phone is appreciated and will definitely kill at least 2 hours out of your day.

Number Three: Kiss me through the Phone.
Your office phone is the best place for all day boo-lovin/girl gossip/grandparent check in….or whatever other conversation you’ve been putting off all day. It’s a time to pay bills, argue with your cell phone provider, book trips to fab exotic destinations. All the while, you appear to be deeply engrossed in extremely important business negotiations.
The only problem with the phone, are your nosey cube neighbors. Unless you don’t mind them hanging on your every word, as you call in your prescription for your herpes cream…try to keep the personal calls, a little less-than-personal.
Also try to avoid calling your best friend, who is guaranteed to make you laugh so loud the whole office will turn and give you disapproving looks.
Call only those where you can keep low-toned, relaxed, easy going convo’s with.

Those are my main three.
There are tons of other things to do.
Download music and create dope playlists.
Endless trips to the vendor/coffee machine take up valuable time. I take at least 10 minutes getting JUST the right amount of cream in my coffee.
Random walks around the building…which also keeps you up with all the gossip in other areas of the company.
Doodling in a notebook.
writing sub-par rap lyrics.
Spinning around in your chair until you feel like you’re going to throw up.

All of these things are great diversions to actual work.

Take this blog for instance. Just killed 1 hour and 45 min out of my day.
And it’s already lunch time.
Awesome.

::10 Crackbook Commandments UGH::

2009-06-13T06:53:00.000-07:00

So I saw a Facebook comment today, that literally made me pause. It was just so wrong on so many levels. It was like 8 paragraphs long. It was written in all caps. It was terribly personal. And it just left me walking away from the page saying to myself...who really fucking cares? I mean..do you not own a cell phone?
I know you are all hype about the events from the night before...but this is not your personal blog sir? Nobody else cares? And then it occurred to me. Some people need to take a Facebook etiquette class. And so, obviously, who better than a FB/Twitter/Over-all general social networking addict like me, to provide a manual.

"I been in this game for years, it made me a animal
Its rules to this shit, I wrote me a manual
A step by step booklet for you to get
Your game on track, not your wig pushed back..." C. Wallace.

Rule Numero Uno:
Do Not Write in All-Caps: I mean I thought everyone knew this? Did it really need to be said?
Caps are to be used for emphasis only. For example "I know this b*tch did NOT just cut me off in traffic."
Or if you're generally very upset or actually "yelling" at someone. For example, if you posted a ridiculously inappropriate picture of me, my comment may be "WHAT THE HELL. TAKE THIS DOWN!!!!!"
But it is NOT to be used to leave a 4 paragraph long description of what dumb ass shit you did last night. It just hurts your eyes to read.

Which leads us to Rule #2:
Don't write more than 4 sentences at a time. I'm serious. Anything that happens in your life, can be summed down to 4 sentences. And if it can't, thats when you pick up the phone. Or text.
I mean there has to be a point, while you're typing away about some random nonsense that you think to yourself "hmm...this may be a tad long...let me just call this fool."
ANYTHING can be summarized in one line. Details are to be used for one on one convo's only. Not for the whole world to read.
For example: Wed night I had a ridiculously long (and hilariously funny) conversation about my feet. Which, admittedly, haven't had a pedicure yet. Therefore, to spare all innocent bystanders, I wore closed toe wedges (very cute btw).
So for about 28 minutes there was a global conference the likes of which the WHO has never seen, about pedicures,my feet, other girls feet, shoes, and on and on and on.
The next day I get this comment. " How 'bout them toes??? LMAO!!!"
PERFECT! That my friend is the example of a PERFECT summarization of a whole night. He knows I would laugh. And know exactly what he was talking about. Without going through the whole thing.
A bad comment would have been "Remember last night when we were are standing around talking about toes and then...and blah blah...and then that dude came up to you and was like what and then i was like...blah blaha blah"
NOBODY CARES.
WRAP IT UP.

So: to summarize: Rule #2, if the shit is longer than 4 sentences. Shut the fuck up you're talking too much.

Rule 3:
Do not give out all your personal life details. During that 4 paragraph message, I don't need to know anything about you that makes me feel like I know "too much" about you. You dig?
I dont need to know about your crazy baby daddy showing up.
I dont need to know about how you threw up all crazy the next day.
I dont need to know who you left with, who you talked to, who you slept with.
Just don't put your own self on blast.
The less people know the better.
You know your life. And your friends know your life. And unless you're like me, and have no social decorum, no one else needs to know your life lol .

Quite honestly, when I go to my friend's pages, I go to see what's up with THEM. I want to say hello (and possibly stalk) THEM. I don't need to fight through a barrage of long ass boring comments about you and your life and why you want to jump off a bridge.
Just do it. Spare us all.

Rule 4: Don't fucking tag me before telling me.
The worst feeling in the world, is when you're driving down the highway, having a wonderful day, and you get a notification that you've been tagged in a photo.
Then you have to try not to die in traffic as you view photo (always a bad one) and try to figure out how to un-tag yourself from your phone.
I dont even know how many times I've made my friends log in for me, so they could untag me. I mean it's just rude.
At least let me know pics are going up from last night. That way I could position myself somewhere near a computer,in order to quickly do damage control.
For example..I know there are some pics from Wed. night floating around.
I know that, after about 6 drinks, the last roll of film may NOT be the most flattering in the world.
And as soon as people get all tag happy, I will be there to clean it up.
It goes back to that whole "privacy" issue. No one needs to know who i was with, or not with. Who I was talking to. Or what my underarm fat looks like lol.
All those things must be hidden (in some cases). It's just polite.

Those are the big issues. The last 5 are pretty simple.

5. Just because we have "mutual" friends, doesnt mean I like you or want to be friends with you. My friends have suspect taste sometimes. It's not an automatic "vouch" for your character. You still need to send a note. Or see me out in person first.

6. Just because we used to date, the whole world doesnt need to know. Leave any messages eluding to "back in the day" or "Remember when we...." and it will be deleted. Build a bridge and move on. Don't go walking down memory lane in public, for all "new" people to get suspect of who I"m talking to.

7. You do not "like" everything. There is no freakin way everything someone updates is "likeable". I remember this one time,I posted something about wanting to jump out the window at work or something, and someone liked it. Really? You agreed with my attempted suicide? Thanks.

8. Facebook is not real life. Do not question me about an 'inside joke' left on my page. Do not get angry at me, if someone wrote something you deemed "inappropriate."
There are bigger issues to argue over. Any conversation that begins with "so i saw on facebook that you said...." I will hang up on you.

9. Don't try and holla @ my friends via my page. Request them on your own time. And ps, if I haven't already introudced you, I probably won't recommend you when you do.

10. Please. Above all else. If I am dating you. or vice versa. Please use your best judgement when "socially networking". Because as much as facebook is not real life. And as much as I will NEVER EVER bring it up. It does hurt a slight bit to see something that may be a little "suspect."
i'm not a jealous girl. But you know...sometimes...a girl just needs a little respect. Please suggest to some of your stalkers that it may be time to perform Operation Fallback.

Oh and that was the PERFECT set up for the next blog....holla

::Morning-After Pill::

2009-06-11T07:21:00.000-07:00

Walnut street. 7 am. Blasting Jimi Hendrix (Stone Free was played about 36 times) with all windows down to air out some suspect odor that has developed in my car. I think it’s a mix of spilled coffee, an old renegade French fry, cigarettes, knock off Jean Paul Gautier perfume with just a tint of hopelessness.

So as I’m driving around all recklessly, scaring very professional looking white men as I zoom by with no side mirror, faulty window wipers and huge ass sunglasses (with no sun in sight) I replayed the whole night. And somehow, through the tint of my $5 Canal St. lenses, and smudged blue eye shadow, it became pretty damn clear what I was going through.

It’s a sadly familiar situation for me. My friends always say I need a reality show. Or that maybe I’m a victim of reality shows. Every scene that occurs in my life never feels like “reality”. It all feels scripted. Like there should be a Dashboard Confessional song playing in the background, and a little location description on the bottom of the screen, like on The Hills. Maybe a little description of the other person in the scene with me. “C. Lark’s third tier friend.” “C.Lark’s faux-crush” C.Lark’s heart sinking into the bottom of the world.”

For example.
Setting: Christina’s faux-boyfriends house. Time 5:06 am.
Appropriate Background song: Such Great Heights. The acoustic Iron and Wine version.
The discussion: How long can I continue to keep falling for someone, who doesn’t even have time to sit down for 5 minutes and take a sh*t. Nevertheless have a *gasp* relationship.
The appropriate decision: Leave now. Before irreparable harm is done. I have about 25% of my heart left. Just scraps and burned pieces and distorted leftovers that I’ve managed to regroup and collect and sew back together. Sort of like making a quilt out of all the crappy drapes your grandmother left for you. Trying to make something beautiful out of something everyone else over-looked as just trash. So I need to preserve what little bit I have left. In order to have something to give the person that I still think is out there.
The ending line: Him: “so you’re not going to see me anymore? “ Me: “no I’m not”.

Cut to the dramatic “morning after” scene. I tried to sneak out in the rain, with my shades on and my heels in my hand as to not disturb anyone. And of course, because I’m the smoothest person in the world (and because this is a movie and not real life) I left my fuggin phone in the apartment. So I spent about 25 minutes ringing the bell and banging on the door to get back in.
Ironic.

The point of this. And maybe I shouldn’t have been that personal with this blog but whatever. Is that now it’s 10:06 the next morning. I’m working on 2 hours sleep. Sitting at my desk at work. I somehow managed to pull together a cute outfit out of random crap in my trunk. Skull printed Vans. Cute black and white scarf. Lathered myself up in some fruity azz lotion and walked in the building as if I was a real person. As if my whole soul wasn’t just left behind in a small apartment in Philly.

All I can do is think of him. Since the first night I met him really. Its been a wonderful and amazing experience. I never expected I would like him this much. He literally just popped up in my life.
“…And then she arrived
Like day break inside a railway tunnel
Like the new moon,like a diamond in the mines
Like high noon to a drunkard,sudden”
(mos def love rain.)
Literally every single thing he does I’m infatuated with. Even the bad parts. Even the horribly annoying things that would drive a normal person crazy. (Like rocking back and forth in the seat of the movie theater so hard that I thought he was going to propel himself into the front row.)
He literally talked through a whole film, (my BIGGEST pet peeve on Earth) and it didn’t even bother me.
Because it was him. He was next to me.

He asked me what I wanted. What I wanted from him. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to say “just you.” All that you are. That sorta sh*t would literally freak a motherfather out. I literally don’t want anything. Just for him make me smile. I told him that. He said I should want more. What is more than happiness??

I don’t care if its one day a week. I don’t care if its one day a month. It’s not about the amount of time spent together. I could spend 56 days in a row with some sub-par negro, and it would amount to the same thing. In that one day. In that one smile. My whole world stops. And it’s just the two of us. So it might literally only be 3 hours in bed together. But in my mind it was a 3 week vacation in Hawaii. It’s just that good.

Ok ok enough. I’m making myself sick.
I wish the whole night could just be re-written. And directed properly. But Cameron Crowe. I wish they made a morning after pill for that.

Swallow Back.

::Don't Date Him Girl...He's burning... TMI??!!:::

2009-06-10T17:47:00.001-07:00

Soooo I'm sitting here, regular Wednesday night...eating some whole wheat pasta (yes its gross but see previous blog about my ever growing muffin top lol) having a nice glass of red wine...when I decide to take a look at dontdatehimgirl.com

I've known about this website for a while...there was some buzz about it a few years ago. Lots of lawsuits and angry men...but in the end the freedom of speech prevailed and this website remains.
So I took a gander on the site...just to see if I recognized anyone...just out of boredom...and GOTTTTT DAYUMMMMM. These broads are out of line.

Or are they?

First of all PRAISE JESUS I've never dated any of these men. And trust me, I have dated MORE than a few men that deserve to be listed on this site. But I believe in getting revenge the old fashion way. You know. Busted windows. Bleached clothes. The normal shit (i kid i kid) LOL. But really though. There comes a point in every woman's life, where you have to take responsibility for yourself.
Yes this man is an asshole. Yes he has done some horrible shit. But does the WHOLE WORLD need to know about it? For instance, for the girl who got "burned" by Q Deezy. Now everyone knows that you too, are burnin boo. I mean, I know it sucks. I know it's painful...but Jesus, Mary and Joseph. This is taking your personal life and throwing it LITERALLY all over the world. WWW. World wide web. This aint just bitchin to your girls @ Fridays.

So I read about Brian Westbrook. And this kid Terrence that I actually had a crush on in 8th grade gym class. ANd about 50 other people I've seen around town. I'm sure there were more,but damn there were over 600 entries in Philadelphia alone.
These girls uploaded pictures. Gave out myspace pages. Gave out phone numbers. Their kids names. Addresses. I actually started to feel kinda bad for some of the losers.
And what if this was all just some jealous baby momma ranting? You have ruined a man's whole reputation for your own personal sense of "revenge." I just have to disagree. I can not,I repeat can not co-sign.

It was just insane.

So real talk. Women of Philadelphia. Relax. Shit happens. Men are dogs. Etc Etc etc. But truly, this is stooping below any level of personal decency.
(and this is coming from a woman who has stooped to some pretty loooow places in my 28 yers lol)

But am I wrong? I mean...maybe if I had found out about some of those aforementioned bad choices BEFORE i got involved. What if I'd had a resource like this to warn me?
Would it have helped? Is it fair to publicly humiliate someone, who personally humiliated you?

I'm torn.

::Muffin Tops and Keggers::

2009-06-10T15:33:00.000-07:00

So as we approach the summer season of 2009...my 28th summer season in life...I find myself in an unusual situation. Muffin top. Sigh. Fuck a 6 pack..I'm working with something more like a Keg here. Just big and round and full of delicious things.

I've only been this size once before. It was when I was around 19ish. I called it the freshman 38. Except the weight all got put on around my senior year of High School when my then "love of my life omg I will die without him" faux-boyfriend shipped off to the marines and left behind a sad shell of a woman.

(Ps amazing how 10 years later and I still have a faux-boyfriend. You'd think by now I'd have figured out how to get a real one lol. But as usual, I digress.)

So after many years of being poor and broke in NYC living off of Ramen noodles and Bodega turkey sammiches, I lost the weight and was feeling pretty good about finally being able to walk into a club without sucking in my gut. It's amazing how little your body really needs to survive lol. In retrospect, if it wasn't for all the dates and old men buying drinks for us, I'm not sure me and my then roommate would have ever eaten lol. God bless a doggy bag. Good looking out Emily. :)

But now we're back to the good ole days of wearing all black like the Omen. The beautiful thing about this summer season is the fabulous accessories.
Huge wide belts...fabulous printed scarves....gut crushing black tights. Just some really amazing fashion out there to help me breathe better...literally.

And don't sleep on all the peasant type looks. While you can't wear them out to the club (although many sad misdirected girls do) they are good for those "weekend lunches" with the ladies. Pigging out on mojitos and fried calamari, without having to follow it up with a pack of laxatives and a three day hunger strike.

So God Bless you 2009 for providing me with the proper accessories to continue to party like a rock star. Without actually having to go work out.

Tye-Dye Scarf 8.80 @ www.forever21.com

Wide Belt on sale 19.50@ www.ardenb.com

:: Real Housewives of NJ. Aka, the poor man's Sopranos ::

2009-06-09T20:07:00.001-07:00

I'm still laughing hysterically at the Real Housewives of New Jersey.
I don't even know where to begin with this group of botox overdosed butter faces.
Yeah I said it. Like Butta.

Maybe I'm just uncomfortable that the short "juicy" (his wifes words not mine) husband literally pays for everything in cash. Hundreds. Crisp. Like fresh out of a suitcase left in Penn Station by someone named "Left Nut Louie". Or off the back of an unidentified white van, with NY plates. Or you know...maybe it could just be fresh out a regular ole' ATM machine. Maybe he just goes and deposits his checks like everyone else. Standing in line at TD Bank. Getting a free lollypop and biscuit for the dog. I dont know. Call me crazy but I just think this dude's money is a little toooooo crispy.

It literally looks like he's holding his breath at all time. And can't put his arms down. It's actually painful to watch. You just wanna grab a safety pin and pop him.

And then there is of course the one housewife who actually IS a crack whore. With mug shots, and a crime novel written about her.
Awesome.

Apparently she was a "model" at some point in her career. And by model I mean modeling off her crackish good looks while dancing around to Def Leopard songs at truck stop strip joints in Carlstad, NJ, while men named "Jim" and "Big Rig" throw dirty dollars bills on the stage that are stained with fried chicken grease, and oil.

Americas Top Model has nothing on this gem.

So she was involved in some sort of drug/kidnapping/ransom/ thing. It's not really a big deal. Just a little change in identity. About a million dollars worth of plastic surgery. And voila. A new woman is born.
PS, the book is: "Cop Without a Badge." http://www.amazon.com/Cop-Without-Badge-Extraordinary-Undercover/dp/078670246X

I think my favorite character has to be the hairless cat, Grandma Wrinkles.

The rest of these "women" really, really really are upsetting to watch.
If I were Italian I'd be horribly offended.

From the ditsy stage mom, to the bitchy (yet fabulously dressed) blonde, to the "older sister" who literally keeps giving me flashbacks of the Godfather, Bravo has truly assembled a top notch group of broads.

Kudos to Bravo. Keeping the stereotype alive and kicking.

::Death of Auto Tunes::

2009-06-05T19:38:00.001-07:00

Dedicated to you... who thinks hip hop has gone too pop. And who hates Brooklyn.

Hollla Back Neph.

::Ode to Amber Rose::

2009-06-05T18:49:00.000-07:00

Amber Rose has been all over this week defending herself against possibly infidelity.

http://hiphop.popcrunch.com/amber-rose-denies-cheating-on-kanye-west-with-cassidy"

I mean. She's a lot of things..but she's not a dumb hoe. Kanye is literally her job. Keeping him sprung is all that she has to do right now to keep the "celebrity" and "lifestyle" all comfy cozy. It's kinda like that boss you had, who hired his dumb niece with the big tits to answer the phones for the summer. Everyone knew she was a dumb hoe who beat out about 300 other more qualified applicants strictly because of nepotism. And everyone knew she'd be gone before the summer was over. But everyone still gave her a horrible eye cutting side glances everyday when they walked in. And she (smartly) smiled back and kept it moving. Because she knew (like all opportunists do) that she would eventually surpass them all.

Which leads us to little Miss Amber Rose. Who, in the great tradition of Rock Stars and their Model girlfriends....has become the PERFECT accessory for Mr. West.
There was a time when this was the norm. When it was expected that some hot blonde (bald, brunette whatever) would rise to infamy on their based off of nothing other than shocking fashion choices, and gorgeous faces. Jeri Hall. Bebe Buell.
All of these women because names of their own, just from the famous men they happening to be seen with.
If this was 1973 Amber Rose would be seen as a "muse" an "icon" rather than a "hoe" or "gold digger." They could be transported back in time to Studio 54 and be at the front of the line. The style, the image and the Ego that the two of them together have, transcends any generation. This is the true Rock status. The misunderstood artist, and the crazy bitch who loves him.

After all the drama with Kanye vs. the world. After the passing of his mother. The ending of his engagement. The lackluster response to 808;s (which everyone now thinks is the greatest thing on Earth) This is exactly what he needed.
A strikingly gorgeous bald amazon of a woman...to stir things up. Someone to match his ego perfectly.
To sit in the front row with him at every single fashion show, and laugh. As everyone else behinds them whispers and snickers.

Because they know what nobody else in that room does. They don't care. That is celebrity. Knowing the whole world thinks you're a bunch of crazies...but knowing that you have enough money and talent to shut them all up.
No press is bad press.

She will ride this wave until something better comes along. Or until it gets boring.
Or whatever.

And then there will be the next big booty girl...and the snickers and glares will start all over again.

So please don't judge Miss Rose too harshly. She's simply fulfilling one of the most important roles in Hollywood. She is the ultimate jump-off. She is the perfect trophy groupie. She is the one that will keep him happy and producing and rapping and in a good place.