This song will always be one of my most favorites. I don't know what has been going on recently, but my girl PJ has been blowing up on my FB newsfeed. I've never seen this video before (shameful seeing how it is one my top songs of all time) and honestly, it's perfect. The shoes?! The fringe?! She is amazing ...
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Mambo Italiano
I am a firm believer that there are two types of people on this great Earth … Italians, and those who wish they were Italian. Now I am not one of those people who is abnormally proud of their heritage. I have no Italian gear … no Italian flag tattoos on my body or paraphernalia hanging in my home. However if I had no cultural affiliation and had to choose what I wanted to be, I would definitely choose Italian. And of course, true to form, it's all about the food.
Perhaps this blog is coming from a place of pure excitement … I will be attending the San Gennaro Festival (or as the real guidos call it … The AVEST) tomorrow and can hardly contain my excitement at eating my way up and down Mulberry Street. I went last year with my dad and honestly had the best time ever. We prayed at some giant statues, stopped by his friend, Baby John’s place, and spent a fortune on Italian pastries. Peeps from all over make their way to San Gennaro, however, don't get it twisted – most of these people are simply posturing, they are literally hoping that by surrounding themselves with Italians, they might somehow BECOME Italian … like through osmosis or something.
It really cracks me up that some people think because they can cook some sauce that somehow they understand, or worse, KNOW what it means to be Italian. One time my mom made gravy for some of my sister’s school friends (in South Carolina, mind you) and this girl actually had the nerve, THE NERVE, to say, 'What is this green stuff, spinach?' Ummmm … no, friend, that would be basil. Don't talk to me about being Italian and shizz until you've woken up to the smell of sauce cooking on a Sunday morning. Or until your grandma feeds you a freshly fried (yes, you heard right) meatball before it goes into the sauce.
When my Nonnie died people did their best to be very comforting, but I felt that very few people understood what I had lost … primarily, my most bestest friend and person I spent the majority of my childhood with. Out of the hundreds (or so it seemed) people that showed up at her wake, there was only one person who I felt truly had an understanding of what the deal was. This guy came up to me and said,
Well yes … QUITE a few actually, and I immediately felt a little better about an overall terribly sad situation. Because here was a man, who I barely knew, that understood exactly what I was thinking (no, not that I would never eat those dar-is-ous cutlets again), but that there was a whole lot of culinary traditions that could never be recreated.
So tomorrow, when I am enjoying myself and time with friends at San Gennaro, I am going to think of my Nonnie and eat many a zeppoli for her (and I guess, in a way, be the nice Italian girl that I was always destined to be).
Perhaps this blog is coming from a place of pure excitement … I will be attending the San Gennaro Festival (or as the real guidos call it … The AVEST) tomorrow and can hardly contain my excitement at eating my way up and down Mulberry Street. I went last year with my dad and honestly had the best time ever. We prayed at some giant statues, stopped by his friend, Baby John’s place, and spent a fortune on Italian pastries. Peeps from all over make their way to San Gennaro, however, don't get it twisted – most of these people are simply posturing, they are literally hoping that by surrounding themselves with Italians, they might somehow BECOME Italian … like through osmosis or something.
It really cracks me up that some people think because they can cook some sauce that somehow they understand, or worse, KNOW what it means to be Italian. One time my mom made gravy for some of my sister’s school friends (in South Carolina, mind you) and this girl actually had the nerve, THE NERVE, to say, 'What is this green stuff, spinach?' Ummmm … no, friend, that would be basil. Don't talk to me about being Italian and shizz until you've woken up to the smell of sauce cooking on a Sunday morning. Or until your grandma feeds you a freshly fried (yes, you heard right) meatball before it goes into the sauce.
When my Nonnie died people did their best to be very comforting, but I felt that very few people understood what I had lost … primarily, my most bestest friend and person I spent the majority of my childhood with. Out of the hundreds (or so it seemed) people that showed up at her wake, there was only one person who I felt truly had an understanding of what the deal was. This guy came up to me and said,
‘A lot of chicken cutlets must have passed through those hands over the years.’
Well yes … QUITE a few actually, and I immediately felt a little better about an overall terribly sad situation. Because here was a man, who I barely knew, that understood exactly what I was thinking (no, not that I would never eat those dar-is-ous cutlets again), but that there was a whole lot of culinary traditions that could never be recreated.
So tomorrow, when I am enjoying myself and time with friends at San Gennaro, I am going to think of my Nonnie and eat many a zeppoli for her (and I guess, in a way, be the nice Italian girl that I was always destined to be).
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Holy roly, me oh my ...
I felt the need to share the song (and video) that has been stuck in my head for weeks. I listen to it and it instantly makes me happy. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros - Home from Down on Vimeo.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Older and (somewhat) wiser ... maybe? sort of? huh?
Oh blog – it sure has been a long time. Why is that every post starts like this? We are in a doomed relationship you and I … I want it to work so badly, yet I won’t put the time in. These long breaks make me miss you terribly though, so that must count for something.
Anyway, I must be forgiven because in the next few days I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. This post is a bit premature (but that has been my style since birth … literally) and the thought of being a quarter century old is as petrifying as it is liberating. I feel like now everyone is making their big life plans. There are some people, who at this age, already have a failed marriage under their belt. Well not this gal, I am ripe for the picking and can’t wait to screw up what I am sure will be SEVERAL marriages. It seems like every conversation I have recently has been about weddings. Who is getting engaged? Who is getting married? Whose wedding was a shitshow? And whose wedding I got so crunk-a-lunk at (sorry Em!) that my wedding date thought he was sharing a room with a chainsaw. Note to reader: martinis at 1pm and an endless supply of champagne makes your wedding guests F-U-N!
Maybe this first quarter century was just for jokes and these next 25 years are when things start getting really good. I think about how much you (can’t) really know in your first 25 years. Important things like qualities that are deal-breakers in friendships, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And also how waaaayyy off base you could be about other things like not mixing navy blue and black … can someone say MISTAKE? I was staunchly opposed for too long, now I envision myself wearing no other colors. Clearly I was not reaching my full fashion potential at such a young age.
At any rate, I think that these next years will provide a new lease on life. Who knows what they will bring – maybe a new job, more money, and new friends to share my days and booze with, maybe even my first (again, not necessarily last) husband … I guess we can all strive for something!
Not that my old friends, job, and boozing partners are all bad, but you know, I am feeling the age of a woman living in her second quarter century … wise, optimistic, yet still scared shitless about what the future will hold for this lady.
So who knows? Drink up to another twenty-five.
Anyway, I must be forgiven because in the next few days I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. This post is a bit premature (but that has been my style since birth … literally) and the thought of being a quarter century old is as petrifying as it is liberating. I feel like now everyone is making their big life plans. There are some people, who at this age, already have a failed marriage under their belt. Well not this gal, I am ripe for the picking and can’t wait to screw up what I am sure will be SEVERAL marriages. It seems like every conversation I have recently has been about weddings. Who is getting engaged? Who is getting married? Whose wedding was a shitshow? And whose wedding I got so crunk-a-lunk at (sorry Em!) that my wedding date thought he was sharing a room with a chainsaw. Note to reader: martinis at 1pm and an endless supply of champagne makes your wedding guests F-U-N!
Maybe this first quarter century was just for jokes and these next 25 years are when things start getting really good. I think about how much you (can’t) really know in your first 25 years. Important things like qualities that are deal-breakers in friendships, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And also how waaaayyy off base you could be about other things like not mixing navy blue and black … can someone say MISTAKE? I was staunchly opposed for too long, now I envision myself wearing no other colors. Clearly I was not reaching my full fashion potential at such a young age.
At any rate, I think that these next years will provide a new lease on life. Who knows what they will bring – maybe a new job, more money, and new friends to share my days and booze with, maybe even my first (again, not necessarily last) husband … I guess we can all strive for something!
Not that my old friends, job, and boozing partners are all bad, but you know, I am feeling the age of a woman living in her second quarter century … wise, optimistic, yet still scared shitless about what the future will hold for this lady.
So who knows? Drink up to another twenty-five.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hot Ass Yoga
This morning I was running a bit late. Two factors contributed to my tardiness – first, my tea was exceptionally hot and I couldn’t slug it back per the usual, and second, I was reading the new issue of O magazine and one article in particular struck my fancy. It was about a gal who, in an effort to change her life, took up Bikram yoga. I didn’t get a chance to finish the whole thing (I will be doing so this evening) but it struck me as humorous because I related to her story, for I, in a moment of stupidity, decided to take a Bikram class.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Happy Anniversary!!
Hello Blog,
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Me and The Babe
There are certain people that I know I could have been or could be friends with. Perhaps I have World Series fever, but I have no doubt that back in the day, me and George Herman Ruth were BFF and we were totally tearing up the town prohibition style.
Me and Babe Ruth would have hit if off famously and he would have been wowed by my extensive knowledge of Yankees baseball. And when I say extensive knowledge, I mean the Richter Scale of Hotness that I rank all the players on. Matsui? He's for the birds, I prefer a more rugged man … Swisher is definitely a 10.0. Dip, mohawk, and all.
Also, I could have totally been his wingman doing the late-night thing. He was known for being a playboy of sorts and enjoying the hooch and the love of a lady friend or two. I am sure he worried if the ladies loved him for 'George', or if they loved him for being 'The Babe.' I sympathize with the man because I know what it's like to have people throw themselves at you because you are so rich and beautiful. I do have a fur jacket and not to toot my own horn, but I was a Paul Mitchell hair model.
Come to think of it, perhaps there is more to this fictitious friendship than I originally suspected. Our lives most certainly overlap … there is our love of the good life, the rubenesque figure we both share, and of course our appreciation for the greatest baseball team ever. The House that Ruth Built is kind of like a home to me, I've spent quite a few hours there over the years. Now, I am not saying that in another life I was Babe Ruth, I'll leave that up for you to decide, but I will say that there is nothing that is making me believe otherwise. Period. End of story.
Go Yanks!
Me and Babe Ruth would have hit if off famously and he would have been wowed by my extensive knowledge of Yankees baseball. And when I say extensive knowledge, I mean the Richter Scale of Hotness that I rank all the players on. Matsui? He's for the birds, I prefer a more rugged man … Swisher is definitely a 10.0. Dip, mohawk, and all.
Also, I could have totally been his wingman doing the late-night thing. He was known for being a playboy of sorts and enjoying the hooch and the love of a lady friend or two. I am sure he worried if the ladies loved him for 'George', or if they loved him for being 'The Babe.' I sympathize with the man because I know what it's like to have people throw themselves at you because you are so rich and beautiful. I do have a fur jacket and not to toot my own horn, but I was a Paul Mitchell hair model.
Come to think of it, perhaps there is more to this fictitious friendship than I originally suspected. Our lives most certainly overlap … there is our love of the good life, the rubenesque figure we both share, and of course our appreciation for the greatest baseball team ever. The House that Ruth Built is kind of like a home to me, I've spent quite a few hours there over the years. Now, I am not saying that in another life I was Babe Ruth, I'll leave that up for you to decide, but I will say that there is nothing that is making me believe otherwise. Period. End of story.
Go Yanks!
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