Bukowski Girls and Neruda Girls Or, Every Last Little Light In New York City

There are two kinds of girls in this world – Neruda Girls and Bukowski Girls.

Neruda girls want to hear:

For those of you not fluent in Spanish (full disclosure: I am not. I can curse and order food), it translates to, “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

It’s a good great line, right? Passionate, evocative, poetic and brimming with romantic promise.

Neruda Girls eat this up – warm honey all sticky-sweet on their fingertips.

Then, you’ve got your Bukowski girls who want to hear:

Like all teenage girls in love with the idea of love, I was once a Neruda Girl.

But now, that kind of talk just makes me cut my eyes, cock my head and go, “What’s your game, friend? What do you want?”

It’s not that I don’t believe Neruda’s lines. I’m sure he does want a woman to bloom underneath him. To burst forth all blushing pink and sweet.

I just think that Bukowski – irascible, inebriated bastard that he was – is a lot more honest.

Neruda will love you madly. He’ll grab you by your hips and sweep you up in this overwhelming delirium – all wild kisses tearing at your lips and your heart. All shattered plates and screaming and storming out. All blood and sweat and salt.

And he’ll do it again and again and again. Maybe with you or maybe with someone else.

Bukowski is just sort of fucking amazed by your very presence and the fact that you’re willing to give him everything. The fact that he’s willing if not eager to offer up everything left of him. But this is hardly devoid of passion because your kisses leave your lips raw with love and let’s face it, Bukowski might just die if you ever take your love away.

I’m a Bukowski Girl.

I never craved madness or a love that would make my blood boil.

All I want to do is just be in the same sun-dappled bedroom. To listen to you breathe and be close enough to touch. Because that’s enough. The warmth of your body, our records, our books, our morning coffee, your smile and how you make me laugh. Again and again and again.

 

 

 

It’s Just a Little Bag, But We’d Feel Naked in Public Without It Or, What’s In My Bag?

My favorite episode of Boy Meets World is the one where Shawn falls in love with Angela based on the contents of her bag.

When I was younger, I had all sorts of interesting shit in my bag – guitar picks, crumpled photos and notes, concert ticket stubs, sand and seashells (always sand) and errant bits of jewelry.

Now, I am old, boring and functional and my bag definitely reflects that fact.

- My camera. I got Fudge Pop (yes, I named my camera Fudge Pop) for my 29th birthday and I love him.
- Pens. Because nary a day goes by without me scribbling something frantically on my hand.
- My overstuffed wallet with more money that jingles than folds, entirely too many cards and stubs and a baseball card featuring Cole Hamels of the Philadelphia Phillies. Dude’s got a wicked biscuit.
- My glasses. I think I need a new prescription. My terrible eyes are starting to get even worse. I’m kinda digging on these.
- Hand Sanitizer from the Body Shop. It’s supposed to smell like lemons. It smells like low-grade kitchen cleaner. Not cute.
- Ibuprofen
- The Comforter solid perfume from Lush. It smells like blackcurrants which reminds me of my childhood because I was all about the Ribena and black jelly babies.
- My phone. It is not fancy. It is not cool. It is not pretty. But it is functional and enables me to stay in touch with the people I love the most. Also, Twitter.
- Passionberry Vanilla Body Butter. According to Ulta, it is a sensual mix of passionfruit, pink berries and vanilla orchids. According to me, it smells yummy.
- A mirror
- Errant hair ties and bobby pins because even though I wake up two hours before work to do my hair, it still looks like a bird’s nest most days.
- Chacho. He’s my lucha libre good luck charm who wrestles away the bad mojo in my life. Also, it reminds me of home as I got it the last time Paps, my sister and I went to the supermercado by Mom’s. That place is awesome. Fully stocked with Mexican coke, spicy snacks, good Cuban coffee and kick-ass hot sauce. Man, I miss that joint.
- Make up bag.
- Orthotricyclen. ‘Cause you know what’s awesome? Modern medicine.
- Bobbi Brown lip gloss, Sugar lip balm and Burt’s Bees lip balm. I might have a lip of a problem.
- Cinnamon flavored gum. Growing up as a kid in England, cinnamon-flavored gum didn’t exist. I remember actually chewing sticks of cinnamon (ah, the joys of growing up ethnic…). Then, I moved to the States, discovered this magical stuff and became obsessed.
- Lush’s Shimmy Shimmy Bar. Or as Sarah calls it, ‘that stripper stuff you have.’ Thanks, Sarah!
- Smith’s Minted Rose Lip Balm. Again, I have a problem.
- Lush’s Mint Julip Lip Exfoliant. It smells good, it tastes good and makes my lips soft. Girl’s gotta be prepared in case Ron Livingston shows up (I’m sorry, Mrs. Livingston. Your husband is a very handsome man)
- Keys to Esther.
- Notebook for scribbling random nonsense. Mostly, “Yo Dipshit! Don’t Forget: ______” lists.
- A cardigan because most places I do, the air is turned down to arctic levels and I get really cold, really easily.

What’s in your bag?

Kate Upton Is Not Fat Or, Seriously – Kate Upton Is Not Fat.

This is Kate Upton.

She’s the reason your boyfriend dislocated his wrist “playing hockey.”

And a tiny section of the internet thinks she’s fat. Not just fat but “well-marbled”, “lardy” and a “squishy brick” with “big fat floppy boobs.”

Chew on that for a second.

People think this teenage dream in her skintight jeans is fat.

It’s such a non-story. Idiot blogger makes idiotic comment and in turn, another idiot blogger (me) responds with righteous indignation.

It shouldn’t even be a blip on my radar, but it really got under my skin.

Because I have body image issues.
Because every single woman I know has body image issues.
Because the notion of my nieces conflating their appearance with their self-worth chills me to the bone.
Because the mere thought of having my daughter look in the mirror and pinch herself in disgust shreds me up inside.

In what fucking universe is Kate Upton considered remotely fat?

If this is the new standard for chubby:

I’m going to throw myself in front of a train…and wind up denting the front of it because oh dear God, I’m Jabba the Hutt’s chunkier counterpart.

I think one of the reasons this hit so close to home is that like Upton, I’m curvy.

Please don’t take that to mean I resemble Upton in any capacity.
I do not.
At all.

That would be proof of the existence of a benevolent god.

BUT I have breasts, hips, a reasonable enough facsimile of an ass and when I read things like this, it messes me up.

“Here is a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover model…and she’s not good enough. Hell, she’s a butterball. So, what the fuck does that say about you?”

I know it’s the opinion of a couple of assholes on the internet and it doesn’t really mean anything, but it does.

Because the internet is filled with 100 proof poison like this. Stuff that claws into your head and rattles around there, spitting venom and hissing in your ear.

Constantly fighting it is a grim, tedious battle.

“You’re not hungry. You’re bored. Learn the difference.” – No, asshole. I’m hungry. When I’m bored, I go online and watch music videos from the 90s.
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” – Wrong.
“What do you want, hipbones or pizza?” – Is that…is that really a question? Seriously? Are…are you a moron? Pizza. The answer is always pizza. Even when the question has nothing to do with food, the answer is pizza.
“You are not a dog. Do not reward yourself with food.” – And, statements like that make me want to murder you in the face.

I am exhausted.

Just bone tired of constantly battling this incessant tide of horseshit.

I wrote about this last year and since then, I have been actively working to fight a one-girl revolution against my own negative body image issues.

I’m not going to lie. It’s tough.

After all, I don’t go to the gym for my health. I go to the gym for the sole purpose of looking good.

As of today, I hate my body less but I certainly don’t love it any more.

But I’m gonna keep fighting.

I’m gonna keep eating deep-fried avocados (dudes, it was like someone was doing magic tricks in my mouth. Amazingly delicious), I’m gonna keep going to the gym and I am going to try my damndest to love the skin I’m in…and it’s probably going to be a much easier task if I make copious usage of this.

Oh, what? I’ve got the aesthetic tastes of a five-year-old. I think we’re all well-aware of that by now.

 

 

 

Fifty Shades of Grey Or, I’d Rather Be A Broad Than A Bella (Or An Ana)

I started reading 50 Shades of Grey last night and I am appalled.

APPALLED.

Not because of the content.

Dudes, I grew up in the era of the internet, went to public school and lived with boys. There is very little that shocks me at this point.

I’m appalled at how ass-achingly terrible the writing is and how this is becoming a thing in society.

When did pale-faced, gawky and gangly girls become the norm?
Does anyone find this remotely attractive?
Is this really a standard to aspire to?

“Oh no, I’m all klutzy and painfully awkward. I’m all pensive lip-bites and doe-like skittishness and FEELINGS. And yet, my milkshake brings all the boys to yard.”

Chick Lit heroines! They’re just like us!

Only…not. Because dudes, this is not me at all.

This is where my defective girl gene rears up in a big way.

Anyone who reads this blog knows I’m crap at being a girl.

I don’t bake – my cookies suck, my brownies come straight out of a box and the notion of frosting a cupcake causes me to break out into a cold sweat.

I don’t relate to Taylor Swift – Dude! You are tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich! It defies the very laws of physics for you to have man problems! You know what I would do if I was tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich? Sing about how amazing it is to be tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich!

I would probably blind myself if I attempted to apply liquid liner, jewelry doesn’t impress me and the notion of reading the Twilight series makes me want to tear off my own arm and club myself to death with it.

(Yeah — Augs hit the jackpot, right?)

Chick lit? I just can’t relate because I am not like this.

When I fall, it’s not all awk-dorable like a baby giraffe taking its first, tenative steps. It’s a graceless, sprawling wipeout of dipshittery.

I am not doe-like in any capacity. If anything, I’m a labrador. “Hi, I’m Jaime! Wanna grab a bite to eat? Sure you do! Dude, let me tell you all about this awesome shit that went down!”

I don’t toy nervously with the straw in my glass. I look the waitress in the eye, smile brightly and say, “Hi. Can I please have the biggest Diet Coke you have? Like, if you have one the size of my head – I’ll take it. Oh and lemon.”

In short — I’m a broad. Or a dame. And I refer to myself thusly partly because I have a thing for old-timey words, partly because I dig noir and partly because it’s sounds much better than the alternatives.

Broads and dames?

We drink gin.
We read real books by Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Chandler, Gaiman, Martin, Sedaris and Moore.
We watch good television.
We can out-talk you.
We will out-talk you.
We’ll probably out-curse you too.
We like to eat and eat well.

We are interesting and loud. We have opinions and we are unapologetically, unabashedly smart.

We will touch you when we talk and it’s not just because we want to touch you. It’s because we’re passionate and we can’t really communicate without gesticulating.

And when we bite our lip — it’s a whole new ballgame, slugger.

I’m just really tired of these passionless, boring women populating fiction these days. They just waif around waiting for some beautiful stranger to come along and imbue them with a sense of purpose.

Fuck that.

A life in stasis is a really dull way to live and honestly, I don’t have the patience to wait around for someone to come along and make some noise.

So, I make my own and if you wanna grab a drum and bang along with me? Sweet! Let’s bring the noise.

Oh and I’ve decided I’m going to write a response to this insipid pablum. I’m calling it 100 Shades of Pink and it’s going to feature a bad-ass broad as the protagonist. It’s also going to be smart, well-written and just effing awesome.

Who’s down to pre-order?

I’ll Gladly Pay You Tuesday For A Hamburger Today Or, In-N-Out Tastes Better Than Skinny Feels

Seriously, who would you rather hang out with? ‘Cause I’m picking the girl with the Double-Double.

Nothing sexier than sharing a good meal.

Falling Down is Not Exercise Or, Working On My Fitness

Since New Years, I’ve gained a ri-badonk-ulous amount of weight. Seriously, there are moons orbiting around my ass. Moons. Plural.

Me at New Year’s:

Me Now

OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but you’re not the one who went clothes shopping this past weekend and resembled a half-popped tube of Pillsbury triple-bleached goo.

So, to rectify this thoroughly disturbing situation, I’ve started going to the gym again. I actually don’t mind going to the gym as long as I’m distracted. Listening to Sports Guy opine about Jersey Shore while doing cardio is a win-win. Keeping up with the Kardashians while on the stationary bike? Good times for all.

I’ve got two primary reasons for working out:

- The more important notion that working out more makes it easier to justify eating delicious food.

Spending quality time at the gym means I can totally justify munching on real chips and salsa — not the baked crap with spelt and flax seed but the old-school kind you get in good Mexican places.

Yes, I know those good-for-you chips you get at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s are good, but come on, dude. Do you really expect me to believe they taste better than the chips from your local Tex-Mex joint?

- The notion that if I work out, I will more closely resembling a cast member of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge.

Duels, Gauntlets, Ruins, Battle of the Sexes, Infernos, I love them all. For years, I’ve been trying to get a Fantasy League going for years now, but can’t get it off the ground due to the fact that the only other person I know who watches this show is Augs.

The show is a perfect storm of reality television – as much drama as the Housewives, as much physical activity as Survivor and as many pretty people stabbing each other in the back as Top Model. Why watch three crappy shows when you can watch one glorious one?

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. You watch an episode and for the most part, everyone on the show is tan and lean.

The way I see it, if I go to the gym enough — I can look like this and retain my dignity (unlike several cast members). Win-Win.

I’m Starting With The Girl In The Mirror, Or One Girl Revolution

A couple of months ago, I subscribed to the imgfave feed on Google Reader.

This is a mixed blessing because for every one Mean Girls/Harry Potter mash-up meme (so. much. win.), there are six images of generic nonsense (sun-dappled rooms, glitter, clouds) misattributed quotes (dudes, I can promise you Bukowski never spouted lines from The Princess Bride. Ever) and that glurgey crap from MLIA that teenage girls slap up on their Tumblrs.

Then, I came across this image. And it got me thinking.

I don’t hate my body.

That much.

I’m don’t walk around thinking I’m Slagathor the She-Beast, but every now and then — I look in the mirror and really dislike what I see. And I’m not the only one.

Case in point — Cougar Town.

The cold open of the pilot consists of Courteney Cox’s character, Jules, in her bathroom giving herself the naked once-over. She pinches, jiggles, grimaces and stares in shock. And she caps it off by huffing, “Crap!”

Dudes, Courteney Cox is 45 and she looks like this:

If I looked like this right now, much less at the age of 45, I’d wear as little as legally possible. In fact, Cox would probably be considered burkha-clad by comparison (sorry Mom).

But, this is what women do. Pretty much every girl I know has looked in the mirror at her hips/calves/shoulders/hairline/pores/nail beds and thought, “Oh, what the hell is this fuckery?”

Why? I’ve been milling this over in my head and I really can’t figure it out.

Why do I do this?

Is it so I’ll be aesthetically appealing to the opposite sex? Well, I’m only really interested in being appealing to one man (This time, I’m talking about Augs and not Ron Livingston. I know, it shocked me too) and he already thinks I’m pretty cute.

A few weeks ago. I’m wearing my sick girl uniform of sweatpants, my high school yearbook t-shirt, zero make-up and my hair up in a messy bun. Dan looks at me and says completely sincerely, “You look really pretty today.” My response? “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Which brings me to point number two — maybe it’s a sense of body dysmorphia where what I see in the mirror is at odds with reality?

I look in the mirror and don’t see toes but pigs-in-a-blanket (the hors d’oeuvres, not swaddled barnyard animals). My pores aren’t pores but rather hubcabs that would make a BP exec tent his shorts in excitement and my hips? Not so much hips, but a startling, wibbly mess resembling badly-mixed butterscotch pudding that’s been funneled into beige pantyhose.

To quote my girl Madge, do you know what it feels like for a girl? Well, when you grow up in a society constantly bombarding you with the notion that skinny and sleek and polished and pretty = successful, it feels an awful like crippling insecurity and self-loathing.

(Sidebar: Size 000, American Eagle? Are you stone-cold shitting me?).

And you know what? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of looking in the mirror and feeling as if I’m too much and not enough. I’m sick of wishing I was a little more this or a little more that. I’m sick of looking in the mirror and feeling I don’t measure up both, both literally and figuratively.

I’m starting a revolution. I’m going to stop hating my body and I shall go on to the end.

I shall fight in France, Los Angeles, Morocco, Auckland, on the seas and oceans and wherever else the wind may carry me; I will fight with growing confidence and growing strength. I shall defend my self-worth whatever the cost may be; I will fight on beaches, in fields, in streets and on the hills. I will never surrender and I will love myself and the girl in the mirror.

Vive la révolution.

Oh and triple zero? Bitch please, I’d rather eat goat cheese.

A Girl Should Be Two Things – Classy and Fabulous, Or Is It Legal To Marry A Dress?

I know, I know — being smart and funny is way more important than being pretty, but dudes — this dress is effing fabulous.