holes.

The day I graduated high school, I got my nose pierced. I remember the rush I felt as I entered the tattoo/piercing parlor in an otherwise nondescript strip mall mere minutes after leaving my congratulatory family lunch at our regular haunt. The monarchs in my stomach were crazy a'flutter and I was flanked on either side by my besties, there for moral support. The chili con queso was still thickly layered on my esophageal glands when I signed away the regular future functioning of my sniffer and endured one huge pang of guilt. Before I knew it, I was punctured. I left the shop with a new hole in my face and the sexy piercer's phone number. Twas an ordinary silver ball that adorned my snout that day and let it be known, I was one cool cat. Pretty kitty. Foxy feline. You get it. A tomcat.

I'd lived my whole life up to this point as an upper-middle class white girl with a duo of endangered, overbearing vultures (read: parents) endlessly preying on my frequent lust for reckless abandon. There was plenty of dead meat for them to gnaw on between my past-curfew drunken returns home and the car I allowed an acquaintance to total, and I'm happy to say I fulfilled the middle-child obligation of making their lives a living hell. Needless to say, I spent a majority of my high school dayz in the slammer. Kidding, my room. Grounded. My rebellious streak had always been present, and anyone close to me knew I loved the element of surprise. Over the course of my senior year, I asked my parents multiple times for permission to pierce my nose and each time I was brutally rebuffed, sent away to scowl in my room with the lights off, music blasting. They were SO UNFAIR!

I'd dreamt of having a nose-ring forever. I thought it'd make me seem older, more experienced, bad-ass. My fantasies were filled with delusions of grandeur surrounding a metal rod slicing through my prized cartilage and with college on my horizon, I could think of no better time to shock my kin. And so I went.

I think I knew even before the deed was done that I was, in a word, fucked. My parents are no push-overs and I don't think I've ever actually gotten away with anything scandalous. Except that one time I smuggled a male caller across the border of my room via window. Now its public knowledge. Regardless, I knew ma and pa would be P-I-S-E-D when they saw what I'd done with their perfect creation. What was I thinking?

 I made it overnight before I was forced to look my elders in the eye. I'm fairly certain my mother's jaw completely unhinged upon seeing my new addition. It wasn't until I scooped her tongue back into her mouth and she was able to speak that she promptly chose not to in favor of the dramatic turn-around and storm off reaction. Ah, disappointment. Worse than the pain of death. I got out of there real quick-like, only to receive a phone call from my father mere moments later requesting my presence at an impromptu family lunch. His cool, calm voice was reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter's and I knew immediately I was to be verbally skinned alive. News travels fast.

Insert Jaws soundtrack here. Daaa-dum. Daaa-dum.

Before my bee-hind hit my chair at the table I was promptly instructed to remove the stud within 24 hours or I was not permitted to leave home for college. That thing was out of me faster than you can say "over-reaction", and I'm relieved to say I made it to Austin three months later. Its been four years though, and over the past few weeks I've been feeling sporadic tinges of regret that I'm inching toward real-life and have no extra holes to show for it.

I have two more months to live as a carefree young radical and damnit, I'm taking advantage of it.

Mom, Dad; it'll be out in two months. Pinky swear.

what's your sign?

Fate is something many women take really seriously. Be it in love, luck, fortune or hardship, I find that females often attribute happenings to some ambiguous, predetermined course of destiny; their own exclusive kismet, if you will (as it turns out, you will.)

You know the expression. "Everything happens for a reason." Surely in some circumstances the phrase is comforting, especially in serving as a form of validation in cases of misfortune or uncertainty. Lady Luck takes a back seat to life's auto-pilot, and we're left living out our days in cruise-control.

Its as if we're suspended--women on wire, waiting for our stars to align. We're loitering in the purgatory of our own minds waiting on the world to change, and while we wait, we read our horoscopes.

They're everywhere. Daily newspapers, iPhone apps, widgets and even the most reputable of magazines, among them Us Weekly and Cosmopolitan. For many of my friends, reading a daily horoscope has become the way they start their day, sometimes even determining their outlook for the following twenty-four hours. My mom reads her forecast in our home-town newspaper, but "only if it has at least 3 stars", indicating a positive fortune for the day.

Our signs go much further than daily predictions, though. In this day and age, many people take their horoscopes extremely seriously, and live their lives by the guidelines of the stars. I know women who will not date anyone born in a conflicting astrological sign, citing that the relationship is pre-determined to fail. Says who, I ask? Gandalf, the Keebler Elf and Papa Smurf, answer the future psych patients.

I have to admit, though, I love reading about the characteristics of my signs to see what the heavens assume of me. I read them and smile inside. Virgo tells me I am gentle (okay), caring (yes), delicate (debatable, but sure),  helpful (totes!), loving (very!), needy WHAT?! Who is this prude bitch to say I'm needy? I'm not needy! So not needy. Am I needy? Tell me I'm not needy. I need you to tell me I'm not....fuck.

For whatever reason (see: sanity) I've never been able to take the cosmos too seriously. Sure, I look at my horoscope when its presented to me, but I take its advice with a grain of rock-salt and go on about my business. I like to think that the course of my life is a result of my own decision-making and not at the will of a few gassy balls in the sky. No one likes flatulence, least of all when it moonlights as something as beautiful as a star. I don't need a dipper to help navigate my existence, be it big or little, and I would never wear Orion's belt; so not my style.

So while I enjoy a night of star-gazing as much as the next hopeless romantic, the constellations and I butt heads when it comes to happenstance. Still, I'll read at the end of my People Magazine and silently wonder if there's any truth to this madness.
I'm only human, after all. Kidding, I'm dancer.

lip-sync.

It's Halloween week! Garth and Kat everybody!

the pack-rat.

My roommate Arielle is truly one in a million. She's fun and crazy and I love living with her, but over the course of our shared inhabitance, its become glaringly obvious to me that Ari has a problem.

I think the first time I noticed something was off was when I first walked into my apartment and found myself welcomed (granted, with open arms) by a family of sock monkeys. And while I appreciated the hospitality of these primates from within the walls of my own home, I had to wonder: who had given them a key?! A key exchange is a sure sign of a committed relationship but these monkeys hadn't even taken me on a first date, much less professed their undying love to me. But before they could fling their cotton poo at my face it hit me (an idea, not the poo): Arielle! I didn't even know she was dating!

Turns out they're just stuffed animals, but the point is: why does this 22-year-old woman have a gang of great-apes co-existing in our cubby-hole of a residence? Because she loves them, that's why. Reason enough for any toddler. And so I let it slide. I could live with them. We're all mammals, right?

It wasn't until I entered her bedroom five seconds later that I began to realize the truth about Ari: I am living with a hoarder.

Oddly enough, many of the most influential women in my life have been pack-rats.

My grandmother has toiletries from the early 70s still occupying the shelves of her vanity. Yes, vanity. Oh, it's expired by 20 years and is secreting foul odors? Put some Windex on it, I'm not putting a half-full can of Aqua Net to waste!
My sister still owns shoes from her middle school days. Who knows, maybe netted Chinese slippers are on their way back!

And now Ari.

The sock monkeys are only the beginning. In her cell, Arielle's got gadgets and gizmos a'plenty, whosits and whatsits galore. You want thing-a-mabobs? She's got 20. But who cares? No big deal...she wants mooooooooore.....Anyone catch that Little Mermaid reference? I know you did, Ari. It goes perfectly with your Little Mermaid pillow. Remember that from elementary school? Still chilling bedside. Word.

Arielle also maintains an obsession with the Olsen Twins to this day, evidenced by a box of every single magazine cover featuring MK & A since 1999. I'm not kidding. Joining them in the box is a folder (cover graced by Ashlee Simpson, thank you very much) packed to the gills with articles from the past five years about looking good naked and "how to make him hot". A task, by the way, that needs no accompanying article. The penis is a simple, simple organ.

I try to rationalize this need to retain old pages of magazines, which, mind you, haven't been read since they were ripped from their intended home-binding. Is my dear roomie especially concerned that print publications are dying and simply likes the feel of a good glossy on her fingertips? No, that's just me. Maybe Self and Women's Health are on the outs; does this genius know something that I don't??

I immediately panic, run to my room and begin violently ripping the best of October's Playgirl to shreds, stuffing the close-up shots of oiled ramrods into my memory box. Mid-orgasm I realize: I don't have a memory box, who am I kidding? That's what my brain is for. And another thing: if I want to see a naked human form in November, I can go out and get it in the very next edition of my favorite magazine, and I guarantee you it will be a similar anatomical sculpture to Mr. October.
 Why then does Arielle not realize the same of her box of outdated articles?

I pride myself on my ability to really connect with people, and I love helping others with their issues. I think I give good advice, and usually I'm able to break through, regardless of the grip of old habits. This one though has proven difficult to crack.

As I looked around Arielle's room today for inspiration with this post, I saw years upon years of memories, and a woman that is at her absolute happiest buried in piles of papers, trinkets and small reminders of her past. And while I get the hives just thinking about having so much shit all up in my personal space, she wouldn't be my Ari without her two pill bottles filled with old fortunes. Hoard your little heart out, babygirl. I love you just the way you are.

 

dog lovers.

My friends Mia and Kelly are lovely, wonderful people. When it comes to their bitch Mabel, though, these two get crazy.

facebook slut!

You can tell a lot about a person by their Facebook profile. I find myself hypothesizing whether or not a person is "my style" based simply on the additions to their personal information on FB. I can tell you with confidence that a person is incompetent, witty or trying too hard with a few simple clicks of the mouse.
Hasty? Maybe. Accurate? Maybe. You bet.

My own profile says a lot about me in very few words. Should a stranger to my person take a gander at my info tab, I've ensured that said stalker would get an immediate vibe of "is she boring? No she's just simple".
Low-maintenance. Lives in Austin. Enjoys deceased Latin American pop-stars (R.I.P. Sel) and is totally into peace.
That's about all the 411 I freely give away, and you'd better believe it was well thought out.
Others, though, use Facebook to sell themselves. Between women, there is always an unspoken competition. Its just there; sometimes in our subconscious, sometimes right out on the table in our dueling cupcake batches we brought to the party. I just really wrongly used gender roles against women, what?? Facebook is one of the places where I can measure up my competition in a way that is discreet and oh so telling. The site has become a brothel of sorts, only there's no happy ending.
I know women who pour their hearts out on their social networks, seeing nothing wrong with advertising the fact that they were dumped by their boyfriend yesterday because they are fat and/or boring.
And he can go fuck himself!!!! You tell 'em, girl.

Facebook has become our own personal sounding board to broadcast our views, likes (literally), dislikes, updates and almost anything else our quivering fingers can bang out. Our "walls" allow us to cyber flirt, stalk, talk and share just about anything we'd like; information enough to get a feel for any active user.

Still, there's something far more intimate about browsing a person's personal information tab.
We put thought into the things that we say in this area.
Does this reflect who I am? Can people relate to this? Am I proud of the fact that my favorite musical artist is Miley Cyrus and that I love the Jersey Shore? If you are that person, shame on you more power to you. You can freely upload those preferences and share them with others who share your terrible taste. Networking, y'all!

I'm guilty of making big decisions based upon Facebook information.
Oh, her favorite TV show is Dirty Little Liars? Probably incompetent.
Two of his profile pictures are shirtless mirror shots? I'm actually celibate, sorry!

And while this is certainly judgmental, I don't think I've ever been proven wrong after appraising a bad profile. But there's a method to my madness, folks. I'm well aware that many people make their profiles look stupid on purpose, for laughs, if you will. With others though, there is simply no room for explanation. There are a few deal-breakers that immediately result in the label of "dumb bitch":

Bad Quotes: As a lover of words, I understand the attraction and power of a meaningful quotation. I also understand that a vast majority of the quotes out there are extra-sharp cheddar cheesy and come off as a desperate cry for attention from the opposite sex.

Behold: the oft used and frequently scoffed at by yours truly Sex and the City quote:

"Maybe some women aren't meant to be tamed. Maybe they're supposed to run wild until they find someone, just as wild, to run with."
-Carrie Bradshaw

 Translation: I've never had a boyfriend and I'm getting desperate; this sounds like a great excuse. I need a Xanex.

The same can be said of just about any quote by Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn that litter the cyberspace of so many forlorn ladybirds fiending for a man's touch. They're foaming at the mouth via Arial Narrow, and while you may see an innocent excerpt from a bombshell's iconic mouth as their virtual wallpaper, I see an empty box of chocolates that was self-purchased on Valentines Day and a desperately drunken addition to her "about me".

The Self-Portrait: Gag-inducing every single time. Why? Why is this necessary? This attempt at sensuality is appropriate only for drugged-out 80s rock-stars and baby prostitutes. Not only does this breed of harlot clearly have an issue with her own self-importance, making friends also seems to be a hurdle she can't quite clear. Red flag, fellas. Start dating this one and you'd better saddle up for an estimated two months of kissing pictures by your own hand ("your arm is longer baby!") and glitter lipgloss accentuating your pout.
Two months max. You'll see.

♥♥♥: These hearts know no boundary. When I see them, I see myself. And when I see myself, I see myself on the ground in a pool of my own vomit. Unless you are under the age of 18, these graphics have no business in your life. Do yourself a favor and graduate to the emoticon.
Far more elegant, far more becoming. You're a big girl now!

Passive-Aggressive Status Updates: You know the kind.
Here are a string of consecutive status updates from my favorite passive-agressor. This girl is for real.

"Dear girl in my math class; if I dont understand a problem please don't roll your eyes and make a stupid noise; your annoying me and just cause you can do it doesn't mean you should put other people feel stupid."

"Not even worth itttt." (Extra t's for emphasis, obviiiii)

 "just sooo tired of it."

"i really hate when people act like they are so much better than everyone else. ugh"

"i'm really tired of people playing other people to the left, do you think you could just tell someone if you don't want to go out, smh people piss me off."

And finally,  

"who wants to go out tonight????"

Who DOESN'T party girl!? Can't wait to listen to R.Kelly and slit our wrists. Text me!

Hay tan ejemplos mas pero necesito salir. Te quiero mucho y vamos a hablar mas tarde. Clean up your profile! Big Brother is watching!

history lessons.

The internet is a dangerous place, man. As a student of multimedia journalism, I'm well aware of the power of technology to track me down as I bounce from site to site on my laptop regardless of the so-called "security settings" I choose. No firewall can keep your bidness locked away forever; even if we delete our shameful past www's (my Myspace page still claims that I am inspired by the Backstreet Boys), you better believe they can still be excavated from the years and years of Internet traffic we create.
We're surfing the web in shark infested waters, and I forgot my fucking wetsuit.

I'm logged onto the Internet all day long. Between my smartphone pushing shit my way every 30 seconds, journalism labs and my own laptop, I'm truly never unplugged. And while I don't typically obsess over the FBI following my online presence, I've been thinking lately about what exactly my browser history says about me, without any defense to support my cyber searching.

The conclusion is this: over the past 24 hours, my Firefox history indicates that I am either a lesbian or a cat-lady.
Maybe even both; we already have pussy in common. (I hate that word, had to make the joke, sorry Mom.)
Point being, I've created my own version of internet porn, and it revolves around infant animals and Colombian sex-pots.
The single most popular site on my recent history is called ZooBorns. A close runner up? Google Images of Sofia Vergara. You may know her as the seriously bangin' Gloria on Modern Family. Lets be real, if I ever gas-up for a road-trip down lesbian lane, she'd make a wonderful husband.

Constantly being online in and of itself is a guilty pleasure that has taken contemporary society by storm. For many of us, the Internet is where we do our "dirty work"; its a place where we can ask questions and find answers about our interests that we prefer to keep to ourselves. I'll never forget that tingle I felt at the age of 12 when I used Ask Jeeves to find out what a blow-job was. (You put it in your MOUTH!? Omg ew, no way!) And while it took at least twenty minutes for Jeeves to fetch me my answer via dial-up modem, he turned out to be a worthy butler and I am eternally grateful to his snobby French ass for aiding in my sexual education.

Let me talk to you about ZooBorns. I cannot get enough of this godforsaken site. ZooBorns is an absolutely brilliant weblog that uploads pictures of newborn animals from Zoos across the world to allow softies like myself to nearly hemmorhage from cuteness overload. And while I don't necessarily agree with the concept of exploiting animals for their looks, the business is dirty and sex sells.

That has nothing to do with this.

Last weekend, my roommate walked into my cave to find me neck-deep in a pile of baby animal photos boring holes through my eyes. I kid you not, I stared at that screen for at least an hour gaping at the never-ending photo catalogue of babes. Each animal brings a different sentiment. Who needs a shrink? I do. Take a gander at these bambinos and you'll experience a whirlwind of emotions you may not have even known you had...

Holy spots, tell me that is not the most adorable nugget you have ever laid eyes on. On a green polka-dotted background, no less.
Spots on spots. Spot ON. See what I did there?

Even for a Jewish vegetarian, these piglets are delicious. Treif has never been so appealing. Look it up, gentiles.

Eel? Worm? Diseased penis? All wrong. This is a baby Caecilian. Precious right? ZooBorns doesn't discriminate.

 

How did my baby modeling picture get in here?! So embarassing, that is not supposed to be in here, seriously.

Oh my god. Could you die? I could die. I have to stop looking at these creatures. I'm about to explode! 

I think you understand the point of ZooBorns, and I also think any of you who think this is a ridiculous hobby to continue should go dart-gun yourselves in the neck. I dare your stubborn ass to not click over to ZooBorns. Double dog dare.

On to Sofia though. 

Let me explain. I promise I wasn't just horny and down to try switch-hitting with a voluptuous South American. 

Modern Family happens to be a brilliantly written show, and one that I love to watch. Sofia Vergara's character is a hoot, and I wanted to know where the bitch came from. Among other dirt I dug up on her, I discovered that her beautiful brown locks are naturally BLONDE. I was appalled. An imposter! And so, I began scanning pictures of her on Google images. Is that a crime? I don't think so. Perhaps the fact that I Google-mapped her house and already have a teddy-bear video camera installed is. I just want to see how the other side lives!!!! 

Can I plug Google any more in this post? Probably. Google.

Alls I'm sayin is this: should I ever depart this earth unexpectedly, I'd like to leave my browser history in the hands of the children. 

Take it and walk tall knowing that your online presence couldn't be nearly as pathetic as mine. Happy surfing!

totes the best hun-cal froyo.

One of my all-time favorite videos. Watch it multiple times and you won't stop quoting it for weeks. One of my biggest guilty pleasures. Also, these men are spot-on; watch for yourself in some of these lines. "I had the Jamie Lee Curtis yogurt..."
Oh, a note for the observant: yee old blog title is found in this vid....alert!
BYE TALK TO YA!

small miracles.

I remember a time when craft-stores existed in my mind as the Mecca of all things fun. In a toss-up between Disneyland and Hobby Lobby, it would have taken some serious convincing to lure me away from the high I experienced every science fair season while roaming the aisles of felt and fake floral arrangements that line the HL, as I like to call it.

Over the years though, I've matured. I'm no longer consumed by the immediate necessity of a sand-art fix, nor do I require new posters of puppies to adorn my pre-Bat Mitzvah walls on a bi-monthly basis. I'm a woman now, there is no denying, and along with my developed figure has emerged a developed taste for fun and adventure, sans lanyard string. Still, the occassional lap around my neighborhood Hobby Lobby never fails to get me all hot and bothered, regardless of my mature-as-fuck carraige. Why you ask? Because if there is one tchotchki women are powerless against its a poison craft-stores know and manufacture all too well: the miniature.

I've always had a thing for small packages. Get your minds out of the gutter. Sexual references aside, I will happily swear on any midget that bittier is better.

Allow me to chart for you my love affair with minis.  

Age 4: Polly Pocket.

The tiniest bitch I've ever known, and I loved her with a passion I've yet to duplicate with a human being.  

Age 6: My Little Pony.

She was mine and she was little and she was all I could ask for in a tiny plastic horse. And that BRUSH! Miniscule! Lovingly sandwiched snugly between my pointer and thumb finger; it would have stroked that rainbow mane for hours on end.



Age 8: Tamagotchi.

You may know them from such things as Giga Pets, the rip-off version that still sees success today in spite of its stolen origins. I'm still bitter. My Tamagotchi was my figurative big-toe dip into the waters of parenthood. Even cleaning up its virtual poop was enjoyable. You know why? Because they were virtual tiny. And resembled Hershey Kisses. I was such an exemplary mother to little Tam that I was awarded "Best Tamagotchi Mom" at the final banquet for my summer swim-team. Apparently my breast-stroke fell just shy of impressive. Why am I telling you this?? 


Age 16: My miniature madness takes a turn for the racy and comes in the form of tiny booze.

It was high school, baby, and I was living young, fast and free. What? I'm GROUNDED?!  Totes sneaking out later. OMG, wait. I stole three bottles of Jim Beam from my grandparents' minibar last weekend! No, you idiot its like rum or some shit. Score! We're gonna get soooo wasted!!!!

And now, present day. 2011. I find myself tantalized by the tiny with every turn of my head.

Why spend money on food when I can buy an entire brigade of two-inch high Civil War soldiers that I can strategize the Battle of Gettysburg with? Its an entire army! From a birds eye view!!!

My latest punitive penchant comes in the form of miniature utensils.

I'm melting. And its not this dry Texas heat. A tiny fork is all it takes to unlock the key to my cold, cold heart. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing, if you have no soul. But any mini enthusiast will happily admit that there is something about those diminutive prongs that tugs at our heart-strings in a way an ordinary fork simply couldn't without puncturing an artery.

This miniature madness is a blessing and a curse, ladies. And one we must all learn to accept.
The best things truly do come in small packages, just ask these broads:

cheer sex.

I am sitting at a desk in the sports department of the news station where I intern multiple times per week. Growing up with a devoted obsessive sports fan for a father made for an interesting and oft contradictory upbringing as a girly-girl, in that I was never permitted to BE a girly-girl.

At the age of four, my father enlisted his monkey in the middle (thats me) on a co-ed soccer team with the menacing title of "Blue Jammers". I begged him to let me stay home and play with my cabbage patch doll who was in desperate need of a haircut, but he heard none of my pleas, and before I could cry to my mother for a feminine and understanding ear, I was reluctantly trudging to my fate in what would be the first (and last) soccer game of my career.

I should have known from the pre-game stain on my jersey that this game (and my sanity) was doomed. During my debut minute, as I ran alongside my cohorts in blue, I was knocked out (actually...knocked OUT) by an excessively forceful Aryan tot on the opposing team. I'm convinced he was recruited from a family of giants; this fucker did some damage. Not only was I left with a grass-and-tear-stained pout, but the game happened to fall on my birthday. All I know is that I gained consciousness halfway through my clown-themed fourth birthday party, and I was too disoriented to jump on my own damn moon bounce. Thanks Dad.

This mishap didn't stop my dear old Dad though, ohhhh no. His prescription for my ailment was to rub some dirt in it and suit up for a childhood and adolescence dominated by swimming, tee-ball, softball, volleyball and the occasional bout in naked mud wrestling. All this to say, I was force-fed sports my entire upbringing, and although I resisted initially, I will now proudly say that I know and love sports thanks, in large part, to my overbearing Fasha.

And so, now, every Friday night, I cover high school football as a member of the media. I drive out to games across Central Texas and revel in the fact that so many of these angsty teens think I'm an actual anchor and stare at me with googly eyes as I strut up and down the sidelines. I love watching the football, but I never fail to catch myself distracted as I log each game.

It's not the form of those underage bootays in their football pants that has my eyes straying from the line of scrimmage, though. I'm staring at two parallel lines of pixies cheering their little hearts out and all I want is to snatch a pair of pom-poms from the awkward girl with noodle arms and join in! It's almost too much to bear!

For many of my girlfriends, sports are boring. They're ready to leave at halftime of a tied football game in favor of cosmos and ritas at the nearest bar. I'm proud to say that I'm not one of those girls. But I have to join the ranks and admit that watching those nuggets do backflips across the endzone makes me just as giddy as a 70-yard kick-off return would. And I'm a SPORTS intern!

This is embarassing for me to admit. I'm losing all of my credibility here, but this is a guilty-pleasure blog and so here I am, convicted of being a chick in the purest sense of the word.

In my next life, I'm going to be a cheerleader with a bedazzled jacket and no earthly idea what 1st and 10 means. Now back to this Redskins game...