Dear Joe...

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 c...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ugli...

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...

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. Lau...

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...

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...

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 sta...

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 lo...

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 ...

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 ...

“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 o...

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 seem...

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 mo...

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...

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 :)

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...

"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 Mt...

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 N...

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. F...

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 th...