earth tones.

Oh my gosh. Is this fun or what?! Okay, calm down, D.

cheese!

You know what women really need to stop doing? Picture faces. What are they? Let me tell you. They are attempts to save a picture from the horrors of a bad smile or unfortunate angle, for the most part. I consider myself one of the most un-photogenic people I know. I dread having my picture taken, mostly because I know it's only a matter of time until a shot of me resembling Carrot Top makes its way onto the internets. If I'm going to be a shmanly red-head, why can't I at least be Shaun White? Hell, I'd even settle for Ron Weasley! But alas, I'm doomed to a life of de-tagging and I've come to grips with it.

But I've been Facebook stalking some of my girlfrans lately and even the most photogenic among us are guilty of any number of photo-induced behaviors that are all too typical these dayz. We purposefully make faces and strike poses that are simply ridiculous, but somehow we get away with it. Ejemplos:

Big eyes, pursed lips. Literally no reason for this face. Also, self-portrait. Shameful!

An unfortunate upward angle calls for open mouths. Sexual.

This one. Hand on the hip, pursed lip and a POINT. This bitch is hitting all the hot spots.

Hey, here's an idea. Put down your yellow mug and smile. Oh wait, you look better this way.

This is what we call the "skinny arm". Popularized by sorority girls and anorexics everywhere. Also, that head is completely horizontal.

Ah, yes. Notice: side angle. Very flattering. Arm up, says "I'm here to party, and also I look super thin this way."

Again, pursed lips. This time, shades enter the equation. Hide your face and tilt that head. Instant hottie!

Sexual Seduction. Anything but.

These two. Stupid.

Skinny arm in LINE. The blonde to the right has it down PAT.

that's amore.

Amor. Amour. Amore. Dragoste. 喜爱. Sayang. Rakkaus. любовь. Kärlek. Kjærlighet.애정.

Love.
 
Just four little, insignificant-when-independent letters. So simple, at a glance. One syllable, rolls right off the tongue.
But that word is a lightning bolt. It's huge. It's gorgeous. Just looking at it on this grubby, finger-print covered computer screen is pleasing to my eye. Just one of them, though. Isn't it crazy what colossal emotions such a tiny fragment of language can make you feel? I look at that word and my heart literally beats. Good thing too; I'm only 23 and I've got a few years left in me.

Mind you, this sappy outpouring of emotion is coming from a pretty tough chick. I wear biker boots, ya'll. Tough. Weaker females have wet themselves before love's "e" even has a chance to take center stage, and go weak in the knees at the term's audible sound. llluuuuuuhhhhvvvv. It's like butta.

Love is easily the most massive guilty pleasure of all time. Man, woman, canine, feline--almost all feel it. Let's be real, cats are about as lovable as body odor. Pussies aside though, most of us crave love. Very little in this world compares to the comfort and horror and companionship and excruciating questioning and pain that go hand in hand with amor.
Rainbow sprinkles do come close. They're just sugar! It's genius!
Still, no cigarillo when it comes down to it. Love simply takes the cake, sprinkles and all.

But the crazy thing about this crazy little thing (see what I did there?) is that it's present even for those who have yet to experience it. I have plenty of girlfriends who have never technically been in love, but they still get it. In their own way, of course.
I always wonder; does my love feel the same as everyone else's does? I think what I've realized from personal experience is that love, for me at least, is not like it is in the movies. Sure, parts are reach for the stars, over the fence, World Series kind of stuff. But for the most part, I'm not looking for the fairy tale. I'm after what's real, and it's all about the mundane.
It's the way I feel when you smile after I make an awful joke.
It's how I think its charming that you sometimes keep me up all night with your appalling sleep apnea and phlegm-charged snoring.
It's the fact that I would truly rather lay there sleepless for hours than leave you for the night. I am making myself nauseous, holy shit.

Over the past few weeks, I've realized that I no longer like the man I'm dating. I love him. It crept up on me like a dark thief, and to be honest I didn't even realize it until I nearly word-vomited it out on him without a thought in my mind. I literally had to scoop the words out of the air surrounding my mouth and shove them back in the face-hole they came from. My face was, I can only imagine, moistened with sweat and as red as my own hair after such a close call, but I'm sure he attributed it to menopause. A mere hot flash!
I'm a middle-aged broad when it comes to maturity. Little did he know, I had just alerted myself to the hard truth. I love this guy.

So, like any flustered, scared, insecure gal, I've been living in limbo ever since. I feel like I've been sitting on a see-saw, and with all this up and down action my ass is really freaking sore. They say love is a battlefield. They aren't fucking kidding. My life has become a violent and strategic war-game. I am neck-deep in the trenches; only problem is that I'm my own worst enemy here. Is there anything more torturous than the first "I love you" in the context of a relationship? I find myself asking any number of questions. Do I really love him? Do I tell him? How would I even go about it? Most importantly though, what if he doesn't feel the same?

Once I was able to answer questions 1, 2 and 3, I was left with that monster of a 4. It took some serious soul searching and a real show of true emotion for me to realize that it shouldn't matter if he doesn't feel the same. Here's a novel idea: maybe I should just say what I feel. Whoa!

I think I've come to realize that loving someone isn't about what they say back. If I really love him, it has nothing to do with whether or not he loves me, too. I love him not as a means of asking for reciprocity; I just, very simply, do.

Aaaaaand so. To You. Reading this post. Hi there. I imagine you in one of a few ways right now. You're either smiling really huge and your jaw hurts, or that same jaw has made its way to the floor. You're leaning forward, entirely too close to the computer screen just to make sure you're reading this all correctly. You're probs a little sweaty and maybe even holding your head in disbelief.
Soon you'll show your Mom and brother. Maybe Dad. You may also be on the verge of vomiting. If that's the case, I am so, so sorry.

Regardless of your current position, (and until I can say it in person), I love you. There it is. Ya got me.

bieber fever.

the great divide.

 I am so proud to be a woman. I'm empowered. I believe that females have an aura and a beauty about them that simply comes with the territory and is irresistibly enchanting when worn with confidence and dignity. There's a mystery about us; a certain grace and intangible elegance that accompanies the self-love and cool tenacity of a woman empowered by her femininity. As a 21st century dame, I've been fortunate enough to have had my battles largely fought for me by sistas of yore. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony,
Maya Angelou, Ruth Ginsberg and Beyoncé have all contributed to the thorough inversion of the once-held notion of women as the weaker sex, and for that I am forever grateful. And while I am thrilled to have equal opportunities to those of men and consider my fellow gurlz infinitely more crafty and brilliant than any old John Doe, I'll be the first to tell you, we are out of our fucking minds.

I've always known this, and truth be told I think it can add to our girlish charm. I have to admit though, some of the thoughts that pass through my cerebellum are positively nutty. I mean, explain to me why I assume my mother MUST have been kidnapped and/or killed in a fiery car crash if I haven't heard from her in 24 hours. Oh wait, because I'm a crazy bitch. Even at my most neurotic, though,  I find solace in the fact that I will never EVER compare to my dear friend Jessica.

Jessica and I met at summer camp about 5 years ago. She thought I was cool in my Birkenstocks and I can always use a new play-thing, so I hired her. I had no idea what I was getting into. No sooner did I process her paperwork that I was thrown head-first into her world of madness, full of questions, insecurities and a monstrous fear of intimacy that many of us have to overcome. On the whole, I consider Jess a sharp young woman with a ton of wit. She's fashionable, very pretty and definitely driven. Few people make me laugh like she does, but then again I don't hang out with many other special needs adults. She's my second craziest friend, and I hope to god that she donates her body to science, because that brain deserves a hefty pickin'. Over the course of our friendship, though, I've learned that when it comes to sex, Jessica is a basket-case. And while penises were once THE obstacle in her road, the times they are a changin', and now the only thing holding her back is her own personal Great Divide. Grand Canyon. Honey Pot. Slice of Heaven. You feel me?

I'm going to talk about vaginas now. I'm just throwing it out there before I (muff) dive into all the dirty deets to allow pathetic, grow up more squeamish readers the chance to navigate away before the screen shot of Jessica's kitty. Kidding, what?! Whoa. Be still, my clit.

But Jess is in good company in her insecurities regarding her clam. I think most women, myself included,  have questions and anxieties surrounding their labyrinth of pink folds. Let's be real; genitalia is weird. Magical and wonderous, sure. But weird. And while a man's junk is out in the open for all the world to see, the vagine is a far more elusive cavern. It's like our crotches have a secret, but they aren't the type to kiss and tell. We have to explore and discover our caves to understand ourselves more fully; what we like and don't like, and just what exactly we're workin' with.

Jessica is convinced that her lady bits are in a Z-formation. A zig-zagged tunnel o' love waiting for her own matching corkscrew cock to come along and sweep her off her feet. There comes a time, though, when we've got to learn to be comfortable with our sex organs. No two are alike, not even the Olsen twins', and I think its high time for Jess to come to grips with hers. But until she finds that jagged Johnson, she'll continue to rant to me about her mistrust of perfect penises, and I'll continue to shake my head and thank my lucky stars that she provides me with enough laughing and blog content than I could ever ask for. Love you, J.

products.

Check out this conversation (via podcast!) I had with some crazy chicks about their outrageous use of products, including a severe nail polish addiction, two-in-one straightener and vibrator (for her pleasure) and a high-maintenance trip abroad. Available here!!
Special thanks to Lindsey Gerson, Alana Prant and Kim Freier.

mahj.

I think my life is pretty embarrassing. I have red hair, for one, which means I have no soul and have been referred to as a ginger and/or fire-crotch since before I can remember. Not only is my head aflame, I'm also Jewish. Proud of it, and yet, still a humorous fact. I look maybe like the most Irish Catholic person you've ever met, but I can chant trope with the best of 'em, and truth be told I haven't a drop of leprachaun blood in my body, despite what my hair may tell you.
It tends to lie, I blame the lack of melanin.

I partake in several activities that warrant a few raised eyebrows, among them Gossip Girl, Glee and Twilight. Still, I think last night I finally realized that I should probably be a bit more discrete with one of my most age-inappropriate past-times.

I play in a weekly Mah Jongg group that I co-founded with my best friend (and Mahj teacher/mentor/goddess) Tracy.

As a Jewish woman, my elder years are all largely set out for me, pre-determined by generations and generations of gamers from ancient Dynasties in Asia. They're filled with craks, bams, dots, dragons, soaps, winds, ears-full of gossip and a platter of Betty's lemon bars (she's hosting the game this week). The only problem is, I've started the process MUCH TOO SOON and I fear I have nothing to look forward to in retirement now that I know the wonders of the Orient at such a young age. I'm not willing to put off my passion for 30 more years, though, so go ahead and roll the dice, Cuppy.

The set is out and the night begins.

Nice rack, eh? This is my wall and my card. Pre-game.

Mid-game and my hand is looking sweeeeeeet! those square looking tiles are called soaps and I love them.

I like to call this one "tile infantry".

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!

toddlers & tiaras.

Maybe the most entertaining TV personality ever. Mackenzie of Toddlers and Tiaras is a fucking nightmare, and I love her.
Oddly enough, I share her reliance on my own nini, and I'm 23. Oral fixation is real, people!

 

If you're in the mood for a good laugh, watch this one too. Sexy FEET!

the bad boy.

Well, friends, my nose is no longer pierced. I made it one whole week before I had a minor panic attack and twisted that stud out my nasal cavity in a fit of cleanliness. Turns out I am, in reality, not nearly as cool as I thought I was for that seven day period, and I'm back to my regular ol' self, for better or for worse. I must say though, having that ring in my nose seriously changed the way I thought of myself. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw edge, mystery, and for lack of a better word, hard-ness. I was a bitch not to be messed with; a red-head with a dark side and a chip on my shoulder. Baked Lay, most likely. I have to say, I liked having that extra-something, loved that when I was looked at by passers-by my cool-factor was instantly upped by my hole. And yet, the second I came face-to-face with my superiors at work, I felt uncontrollably embarrassed. Thankfully, I knew this wild side was only temporary, and that I'd soon regress to being just a pretty face. But it got me thinking about those whose very identity surrounds the look that is often deemed by society as "bad".

No sooner did I visualize this that I began to feel the same rush I felt when I entered the piercing studio that fateful day last week. This was followed by a tingling in my lady-bits and a wave of realization: I've yet to address a gargantuan pleasure so many of us women-folk are guilty of: lusting after the bad boy.

You know them well. Hyper-masculine, untamed, callous. Surprisingly well-dressed. Often under the influence of any number of mind-alterers, occasionally tattooed. Large chance of having served hard time. And yet, irresistibly sexy.

While I normally have my way with words here, I'm in the mood to be presented with beauty on a silver platter. Here's a slideshow of some of the most drool-worthy bad boys in history. Pick your favorite and ponder the excitement of being mistreated by Mr. Wrong purely for the sake of physicality. Swoon!

ari eats.

Remember my roommate Arielle from a few posts ago? The pack-rat. Yesssss, yes that one. Well not only is she a champion hoarder, she's also a competitive eater! I followed her around the grocery store to photograph her in her element. Feast your eyes. See what I did there?

Arielle arrives at H-E-B, ready to do her monthly grocery shopping.

An immediate bee-line for the Macaroni n' Cheese aisle.

"If I'm going to eat carbs they better be organic."

Arielle roams the aisles in search of the perfect midnight snack.

Merchandise. Arielle loves the vibrant colors of H-E-B's rice boxes.

An apple a day keeps binges at bay.

Never a full meal for this one. Random snacks likes hearts of palm keep her satiated.

Ready to go home and eat everything she's purchased the very same night. Swear.