Thursday, January 10, 2013


Yesterday while at the gym, after the stair master and leg work, I cut my time on the elliptical short because I thought, today’s the day, today is the day I play basketball with those boys.

So I hit the pause/reset button and headed out to the court. When I got there, I watched. Watched the ball hog, watched the cute one, watched the clearly exhausted one, saw the showoff. When the game ended I crossed the court to shoot around. My first shot was nowhere near the basket and did what every first shot should do. As the ball bounced off the rubber siding around the frame, it reminded me these baskets are real, unlike the 50 inch ones that the kids at work play on. With a laugh at myself, and a little more effort, I start making shots, and looking better. Although I wanted to play, I didn’t; I sat and watched.

And then I remembered the last time I played basketball with some boys. Three years ago in college, I played basketball with the boys. Although I was often wide open, they didn’t pass to me, but afterwards I found it was worthwhile, because one of the boys had taken notice. He was loud and kind and said I was fearless for getting in the game. Whenever I saw him on campus, he called me by my real name, “Sup, fearless?!”

Which makes me wonder when the hell did any of this intimidation happen? When did boys become unapproachable? Why do they now render me speechless? Although some of them are good looking, talented and fun to watch, they are still just gangly boys, and I should still be fearless. Especially since I am just as capable, and none of them get rebounds.

In celebration and motivation, my newest resolution for 2013 is to play basketball with the boys at the gym and reawaken that fearless girl inside of me.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

My Mother's make-up

I can clearly recall a time, in which, at a young age, I was fascinated by the beautiful. Perfume bottles, were especially intriguing and enchanting. Each one a small story, a diminutive yet powerful vial of a scent that would lead to a moment in time. Every lone bottle seemed as though some apocathary had lived his entire life just to create this one scent that would envelop an entire being, narrate an essence of beauty that fit you and only you. Different shapes and sizes, whispered tales of intrigue, seducing me to try. Lipsticks were just as interesting to me. I used to wonder why, my mother, never wore any.

Speaking of my mother, I am swiftly reminded of the first time she put make-up on me. I was in elementary school. I used to watch her get ready every morning, as she took attentive care to each move she made while seated at our kitchen table. I munched on Kix as she applied and manipulated how she wanted the world to see her. Her tools lay open before her, ready for use. By night they slept in the tiered, pink plastic box that housed them, yet when morning crept in, they were freed from the kitchen drawer and put to work. A towel would set the stage, and then she’d thumb through her supplies, picking out what she needed, preparing order. She had more than she’d use for some reason, as though it were an unwritten rule. She would only use half of her supply, yet what would resonate more with me would be the pieces that went untouched as though they didn’t stand a chance. With the cereal of my childhood compressing into my ten year old molars with each bite, I’d stare trance like, at her idle tools, she once thought mattered. The large, yellow powder brush called to me; the chipped paint of the 6inch handle, the bristles looking dated yet still precise. I’d wonder if it knew how much space it took up. When I was feeling bold, I’d go through her make-up, my small hands, lifting, sorting, and examining. I came across one more bewitching than the yellow brush: the most beautiful pallet of eye shadow my young eyes had ever seen. A modest gray plastic held the pearlescent hue: white speckled with pinks, blues, and greens. The size of a silver dollar, I had no idea of its true intentions but I loved it still. It looked as though she had only used it five or seven times and as if weeks, perhaps even months, has passed in between uses. It was probably a Friday, when she let me pick which make-up to wear. I knew my decision. Later that day I would brag in the lunch line and close my eyes for all to see my dusted eye lids, fit for the heavens, or a long afternoon of playing in a garden-Shakespearean like.

Monday, April 19, 2010

So I am pretty sure I have a new favorite person

Oh Christina Hendricks! she's so witty! Wish I could spend the day with her! We could drink sugary coffee and go shopping and swap stories and I could try my damndest to not walk around in awe of her beauty! P.S. i think it is about time someone beat out Megan Fox
And here are a few of my favorites from her "A Letter to men" feature from Esquire:
We love your body. If we're in love with you, we love your body. Your potbelly, everything. Even if you're insecure about something, we love your body. You feel like you're not this or that? We love your body. We embrace everything. Because it's you.
We remember forever what you say about the bodies of other women. When you mention in passing that a certain woman is attractive — could be someone in the office, a woman on the street, a celebrity, any woman in the world, really — your comment goes into a steel box and it stays there forever. We will file the comment under "Women He Finds Attractive." It's not about whether or not we approve of the comment. It's about learning what you think is sexy and how we might be able to convey it. It's about keeping our man by knowing what he likes.

We also remember everything you say about our bodies, be it good or bad. Doesn't matter if it's a compliment. Could be just a comment. Those things you say are stored away in the steel box, and we remember these things verbatim. We remember what you were wearing and the street corner you were standing on when you said it.
Also, no tank tops. In public at least. A tank top is underwear. You're walking around in your underwear. Too much.
About ogling: The men who look, they really look. It doesn't insult us. It doesn't faze us, really. It's just — well, it's a little infantile. Which is ironic, isn't it? The men who constantly stare at our breasts are never the men we're attracted to.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

"Industry of Cool" (be forewarned heavy picture post for once)

Because I am saddened by how uncool my old photos are, here are some good ones to admire.

P.S. Happy Valentine's day Lovers!



Monday, December 14, 2009

"Run Home"

I am now back at home, for the first time in a long time. Had a strange series of dreams, not last night, but the one before. I was visited by two of my favorite beautiful people. Two people I think of often even though I have not seen them for years. Two people who always inspire me. When I thought of what the dreams meant all I could come up with was that perhaps I want my life to be more exciting.

It seems to me, we venture home to remember how to dream. While we are away we are often forced to live in the present, deal with day to day tasks, and stumble upon the people in your life while in the environment you are tied to for the time being. Yet, upon returning home you acquire time to stop and think, time to sit around and be bored, jealous, happy, sulk-y, silly. You have an opportunity to embrace the simplicity of where you came from and sometimes forget why you ever left, until you remember how you want your life to be.

When I go home, I remember my dreams. I remember and realize how whole heartedly I want to embrace life and make mine extraordinary.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

"Dawson, Rose Dawson."

So, when I first saw the movie Titanic in second grade I always thought it was odd when Jack kisses Rose’s hand (see picture for scene screen cap) he follows it up by stating, “ I saw that in a Nickelodeon once and I’ve always wanted to do it .” Because in second grade Nickelodeon was a television thing and I’m all wait a minute! It wasn’t until today when I was studying for my history final that I figured it out.

Nickelodeons- converted store fronts in working class neighborhoods that showed early short silent films usually lasting fifteen minutes, requiring little comprehension of English, and costing only a nickel to view.

Mystery solved (“You meddling kids!”)