11/24

I am not in a particularly thankful mood. In all honesty, in this very moment while I type, I’m in more of a FML kind of mood. Four new tires. One new battery. A week out sick. The glaring absence of a datable man in my life and a snuggleable dog. Overuse injuries that keep me from the best parts of dance class. Work stuff that I daren’t mention. (Don’t mess with me about the ‘daren’t', I’m warning you…) But perhaps this is the perfect time to focus on the good. Right when I’d rather be punching something or driving my car hard enough to pop one of those dangerously low tires, I should be remembering the happy. I’ll try. But I make no promises that I won’t throw in a “fuck me” or two just because it feels good.

I am thankful for (this isn’t going well, I already want to kick myself for the faux-cheer)…

1) A job.
Yes, I have one and yes, it doesn’t make me want to kill myself. (It just occasionally makes me want to punch a few key people in the neck. But not my boss. Or my bosses boss. And that’s something.)

2) A home.
Sure it’s small and I can barely afford to be social once I pay rent, but those seem to be sacrifices I’m willing to make. And I never have to worry about strange noises in the middle of the night since I can see almost every corner of the place from my bed.

3) My parents.
Now I really am going to get all cheesy on your ass. But really, how did I get so lucky? My mom laughed when my response to my punctured tire was, “at least my car is getting nailed.” And I would enjoy spending time with her even if she wasn’t my mother. My dad tells me he loves me and is proud of me every chance he gets. Sometimes I wish I could share them, they’re that awesome.

4) My endorphin addiction.
I will always work out and it’s rarely an internal struggle to get to the gym/pool/studio. I love it both while I’m doing it and after the fact. For that, I will always be thankful.

5) My city.
Boston is like a first love, it’ll always have some small piece of my heart, but San Francisco is like the man I’ll marry, it reminds me over and over why it’s the love of my life.

6) My dance options.
I’ve said before that dance is my church. That I have at least two wonderful, welcoming studios in which to take classes as an adult with no professional aspirations is the kind of miracle that makes me subscribe to the religion.

I’m not immune to the fact that I basically just said I have a great life in a great place with a great family and great friends, but I won’t pretend I was able to shake off the bad mood. Thankfully, I’m willing to keep trying.

I love this topic. It has been hotly debated between myself and my friend Pittsburgh. Pitts thinks that giving sex on the first date is normal and ok. hmmm.. Now I’m not saying it’s wrong but it’s wrong for me. I definitely think it’s an age thing. Pitts in her 20’s and I’m 41. I blame Clinton for this, I mean “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky” pretty much sealed the deal. DISCLAIMER; I would have totally sucked Bill Clinton’s dick given the chance. (don’t hate) When I was in my 20’s, living in Boston and dating I never wanted a dude to eat my pussy. I thought it was gross. I never wanted to suck a dick either. Double gross. I was a late bloomer sexually and didn’t even know what a clit was, where it was located or what the fuck to do with it until I was 20-something. Back to eating pussy. I dated a guy, and Italian guy, named Willie. Holy mother of god, this man wanted to do nothing but eat my pussy from sun up to sundown. I was horrified! WHAT?!?!?! WHY!?!?!? GROSS!!! I was probably 23 and he was maybe 27. I would walk in the door at his house and within 5 minutes he would have me naked, spread out and eating like it was the last supper. Believe it or not I was not always as direct as I am now and never really felt comfortable telling him NO so I let it continue until one day I actually enjoyed it AND had an orgasm. HOLY SHIT! What was that?!?!?! After that I encouraged him and when I walked in the house I didn’t even bother saying hello, how was your day or anything before hiking up my skirt!  So began my love/hate with a man-eating my pussy. If a man does not have a 100% LOVE of eating pussy then he should keep his mouth far away. There is NOTHING worse than a dude thinking he’s doing you a favor by eating your pussy. meh.  I have been gummed, licked, blown on and bitten by men thinking they’re doing something good down there.  If you don’t love it then I don’t love it!  I can’t tell you how many times I have laid there, legs spread looking at the ceiling making the obligatory moans and groans all the while rolling my eyes and thinking to myself “what the fuck does he think he’s doing??”  I’m embarrassed to say I did no grooming of my pubic area until I was 30 + .. yikes.. sorry guys I didn’t know!  Now.. .sucking dick!  I don’t remember when I first enjoyed it or when I got good at it but when I am 100% into my guy I am totally into sucking his dick.   Seriously.  Anytime, anyplace.  Since losing weight and dating I noticed that a lot of dudes want to eat my pussy.  Why?  I mean eat my pussy right away, before sex, like on the first date before having sex!   I just think that oral sex is waaaay more intimate than fucking.  Does anyone else agree with me or am I just smoking crack??   Ok, what’s my point?  I’m not sure, I think I started out wanting to say one thing and now it’s 16 hours later and I’ve lost my train of thought.  hmmm.. Oh ya…. soooo.. oral sex on the first date is NOT ok.  Oral sex before sex, meaning he sticks it in, is NOT ok!   thoughts? opinions? feedback?

12/4/09  Addendum:  What is the new obsession with licking assholes?  Around the world, tossing my salad etc…. I mean really?  I like to fly my freak flag high and I do mean HIGH but when a couple dudes told me they wanted to lick my butthole even I was a little taken aback. Stick your dick up my ass, your finger, vibrator or even a carrot but do not stick your tongue up, near or around my asshole.   Sorry.  Oh and do not ask me to lick your bunghole either.

I cannot get this song out of my head. I’ve been listening to it while I run for the past week. It moves me.
I am not sleeping. I am going to bed late, sleeping for a couple hours then waking up and unable to go back to sleep for at least 2-3 hours. I can’t turn my mind off, I am struggling.

I was expecting just a little push.

Instead, someone gave me a swift kick from behind.

Tethering on the edge, jumping in with both feet sounded like a very good idea. That was until I found out that I had to take the plunge much sooner than later. I didn’t even have enough time to securely fasten my Mae West yet.

I’ve asked Harrison and DeGowin to back me up, reason why I must spend more time with them. Still trying to get hold of the monkey. Here, monkey, monkey, monkey…

Technology does not make sense sometimes, the irony.

In an attempt to retrieve a contact number sent over Adium on my Macbook days ago, I logged in and found that my Mac could no longer connect to my home network. Thus began my half hour attempt to activate and deactivate AirPort; search for non-broadcast network by keying in SSID and password; verifying password once again; verifying wireless network encryption; checking MAC filter list; removing all previous records of home network on Macbook and then adding it back again.

Finally, I decided to make the network vulnerable for a moment, and enabled SSID broadcast.

Voila. Detected by Macbook. Proving that there had been nothing wrong with my settings previously, it joined the network without complaint. Seeing that the Macbook and Network had finally gotten over their differences and were on speaking terms again, I turned off broadcast and observed.

All fine.

There is no logic at all behind this problem and its solution.

My mother just washed my blanket, and I confirmed that the blanket is now stiff and scratchy during my test lie-in-bed half an hour ago. This is the standard state my washed blanket returns in. There’s just something about my mother’s detergent. From experience, a bit of dirt helps in softening it a lot, and in a day or two’s time the blanket will be nice and soft. But still retain a bit of that detergent and sun-dried laundry smell I so love.

@Hevenlysuperb [follow him too] wanted me to write an entry about him & what else can iSay about em other than he’s a cool dude =) & he’s not as concited as he looks*If he were he has all the reasons to*. He thinks highly of himself *that’s good =]* he’s smart*not a lot of people are & handsome*but iLook way better lol*.

Obviously he loves the mess that iAm because he follow s me & sees what craziness my tiny little head can come up with! Now get your 15mins of fame @Heavenlysuperb =D *camera flahses*

Ok this is about Wig wearing bandits =) &&  @iiMJuztAw3som3 [follow her] just reminded me about how much iLove them =] Women & their fake hair makes me go Boom! Cause its so funny that people put fake hair in their head that don’t even match their original hair color. Like how could your hair be Jet Black & u got a blonde weave or wig lol.

Yet iLike when they do stuf like that cause it gives me something to laugh at. Something that’s embarressing is a boy having more hair than a girl -_- iKnow this 1 person @myceleblife [follow him] & his hair is longer than alotta chicks iKnow o_O. A shame? Yes it is. But there’s a difference between being baldheaded & having a short cut. You can tell by the way the end of the hair is. For example “Fantasia has a short cut while Neffe”Keyshia Cole” sister is just striaght up baldheaded =)  now folks there’s your lesson for today. The difference between happy & crappy =)

P.S. iLove a baldheaded chick =)

What are you imagining? What are you creating that no one else even knows yet? Our ability to visualize is a great gift – and to create your vision is your art. Dream, imagine, visualize – dance in your heart… and have the courage to create!

Fashion is not dead.

Obsession is not dead…

… neither is craving.

I need that bag! Don’t ask how, why or anything. Just tell me anything you know about it.

Zara studded bag

 Photo elenita.no

Some days the difference between what I need to happen and what actually happens is so big that the only thing that makes me peaceful is sinking into a feeling of upcoming doom. Like the mood of this song. There’s no pressure, everything is going to end soon (speaking in relative terms, I hope). Of course that’s not what I want, but there are days when what I want gives me this intense feeling of a loss, even though I never had it to lose it. Only in my head.

^One of the best applications ever to grace the site.

For those of you who don’t know what it is, you log on to Facebook, and then it asks you random questions about people from your friends list. Here are a few examples from mine:

Q: Name someone you’ve always wanted to kiss.

A: lol…

Q: How would you feel if you discovered Helen was actually your cousin?

A: I would want to know who else in my family is that short. JK! <3 you Helen!

Q: What’s the best way to make Alex smile?

A: Use her name after every sentence directed at her.

As you can see, there are some interesting questions. And I also found this other application, GroupCard, where you can start a virtual greeting card that adds pages so more and more people can sign it. So cool! I’m making one for someone involved with BATB who’s birthday is Thursday.

Existen muchas injusticias en este mundo y la violencia de género es una de las más dolorosas porque demuestra que el primer mundo también carga con sus lacras y porque tras ella se esconde un irracional frenesí de odio hacia la mujer. Cada día 183 mujeres llaman al teléfono 016 en busca de ayuda. Y, a pesar de que en 2009 se han producido 14 muertes menos que en 2008, en lo que llevamos de año han sido asesinadas 49 mujeres a manos de sus parajes o ex compañeros sentimentales. Las víctimas, sin embargo,  no son exclusivamente las mujeres objeto de la ira acomplejada y vil de estos hombres. Sino que los hijos son dramáticamente testigos directos del maltrato a sus madres. Niños que quedarán marcados de por vida.

Ainhoa Arteta vista por el fotógrafo Iván Hidalgo en su obra 18 segundos, un alegato contra la violencia de género.

Los datos siempre resultan fríos y Miguel Lorente, Delegado del Gobierno para la Violencia de Género, en un acto de presentación del Instituto de la Juventud, ofrecía los últimos registrados en 2009 que evidencian un ligero descenso en el número de víctimas mortales menores de treinta años. En lo que llevamos de año, el 26% de las víctimas mortales que tenemos que lamentar pertenecen a este grupo de edad. (Durante 2008 la cifra fue del 32,8%, según los datos del Observatorio de la Violencia de Género). Miguel Lorente destaca que el problema sigue estando presente entre los jóvenes. Recientemente la ministra de Igualdad, Bibiana Aido, afirmaba que “cuando hay violencia de género no importa que se tengan 50 años o 16”. No le falta razón a la ministra al afirmar que las “relaciones tóxicas”, que comienzan con pequeños detalles como avasallar al otro con mensajes al móvil o humillaciones en público, son “la semilla de la violencia de género”. Y es la educación la mejor prevención para erradicar este tipo de conductas.

Hoy, día 25 de noviembre, numerosos actos van a ocupar un espacio en un intento por sensibilizar, por hacer visible un problema que afecta de lleno a las mujeres por el mero hecho de serlo. La violencia machista requiere del apoyo y la condena de toda la sociedad que no puede permitir conductas nimias, llamativas o sangrantes  que traten de menospreciar o menoscabar a la mujer.

Mi contribución apenas pasa por estas insignificantes palabras porque prácticamente todo resulta insignificante cuando tu persona ha dejado de existir. Cuando ya no se cuenta. Cuando la vida se trastoca y forma parte de un absurdo peligroso. Cuando las acciones más rudimentarias forman parte de reflejos conducidos por un ente autómata que no se cuestiona nada, que simplemente obece a su maltratador, a su falso dueño. Así transcurre la vida de estas mujeres a las que un hombre algún día quiso (queremos creer), y también, durante uno de aquellos días, todo ese amor se tranformo en odio. Muchas de ellas reconocen que tras el golpe sobreviene lo peor, y es cierto. Tras el golpe la autoestima deja siquiera de existir.

Arancha Sánchez Vicario fotografiada por Iván Hidalgo. Imagen incluida en la exposición 18 segundos.

Estos hombres capaces de levantar la mano y de herir también con la palabra y la actitud practican la peor de las conductas: el abuso de poder, la manipulación consciente, el plan perfecto para someter la voluntad del otro. Por eso, estas mujeres, que denuncian o aguatan en silencio, deben percibir la seguridad y el apoyo efectivo que la sociedad, desde todas las instituticiones, está obligada a proporcionarles. Ayuda legal, policial y social.

Ayudas que deben partir de la garantía de protección personal, que deben centrarse en el amparo legal impartido por jueces competentes en la materia (a los que no les vendría nada mal la especialización como se exige en otros tantas profesiones); ayudas eficaces que se cuentan con las herramientas necesarias para poder emprender con ilusión una nueva vida. En Cataluña, 23 empresas se han comprometido a contratar a mujeres víctimas de violencia machista. 23 empreseas que van a hacer posible que esa otra vida pueda comenzar, y entre las que se encuentran Aguas de Barcelona, Borges, Caixa Catalunya, Caprabo, El Corte Inglés, Frit Ravich, Gas Natural, La Caixa, Manpower, MRW o Mercadona.

La actriz Lola Herrera posa para Iván Hidalgo. Fotografía incluida en la obra 18 segundos.

Pero toda ayuda es poca y es la educación la que debe centrar buena parte de las acciones si de cara al futuro queremos anunciar en exclusiva y a través de cualquier medio de comunicación el fin de estas agresiones a las que apenas les basta con 18 segundos para acabar con la vida de una mujer. Esta franja de tiempo es la que lleva por título el trabajo del fotógrafo Iván Hidalgo que estará expuesto en el Círculo de Bellas Artes hasta el 27 de noviembre con motivo del Día Internacional contra la Violencia de Género. Se trata de un conjunto de fotografías cuyas protagonistas son algunas de nuestras famosas más queridas como Ainoha Arteta, Aitana Sánchez Gijón, Angels Barceló, Belén Rueda, Araceli Segarra, Cristiana del Valle, Lola Herrera y Maribel Verdú, entre otras. Imágenes elaboradas a conciencia desde todos sus ángulos, incluido el maquillaje realizado por Alicia La Rosa; fotografías cuyo mensaje es el alegato contra la violencia hacia las mujeres y que lo hacen a través de la excepcional visión artística de Alejandro Marcos. 

Tanto el fotógrafo como su director artístico se han volcado en escenificar las consecuencias de la violencia de género; en mostrar los golpes visibles, pero también los ocultos. Las miradas que ofrecen reflejan miedo, pero también son valientes, las hay miradas desafiantes, y las hay que se adivinan perdidas o permanecen ausentes. Hay otras en cambio que se ocultan, que parecen querer disolverse. Las fotografías son ficción, contienen el aderezo del maquillaje y la interpretación; pero conviene no olvidar que las imágenes, sabiendose fingidas, evidencian el sufrimiento de miles de mujeres.

http://www.redesyole.com/18segundos/

Cada 18 segundos una mujer es agredida en el mundo. 18 segundos para que una vida cambie de rumbo. 18 segundos para destruir la autoestima de una mujer. 18 imágenes que rompen el silencio. 18 mujeres que se unen en un clamor por la conciencia. 18 segundos para comprender. 18 segundos de esperanza.

Jason Derülo.
Deluga Heights.
J. J. J. J. J. R.
Come on.

Everybody’s looking for love. Oh. Oh.
Aint that the reason youre at this club. Oh. Oh.
You aint gonna find a dance with him. No. Oh.
Got a better solution for you girl. Oh. Oh.

Just stay with me now. Say the word and well go.
Ill be your teacher. Ill show you the ropes.
Youll see a side of love you’ve never known.
I can see it going down, going down.

In my head, I see you all over me.
In my head, you fulfill my fantasy.
Youll be screaming no.
In my head, its going down.
In my head, its going down.
In my head. Yeah. In my head. Oh yeah.

Some dudes know all the right things to say.
When it comes down to it, its just a game.
Instead of talking let me demonstrate. Yeah.
Get down to business lets skip foreplay.

Just leave with me now. Say the word and well go.
Ill be your teacher. Ill show you the ropes.
You’ll see a side of love you’ve never known.
I can see it going down, going down.

In my head, I see you all over me.
In my head, you fulfill my fantasy.
Youll be screaming no.
In my head, its going down.
In my head, its going down.
In my head.

Break it down. Ay-oh. Come on. Ay-oh. Ay-oh.
You singing to me baby in my head right now. Ay-oh. Ay-oh. Come on.
Shell be screaming out when it all goes down.

Just leave with me now. Say the word and well go. We can go.
Ill be your teacher. Ill show you the ropes.
Youll see a side of love youve never known.
I can see it going down, going down.

In my head, I see you all over me.
In my head, you fulfill my fantasy.
Youll be screaming no.
In my head, its going down.
In my head, its going down.

In my head, I see you all over me.
In my head, you fulfill my fantasy.
Youll be screaming more.
In my head, its going down.
In my head, its going down.
In my head.

Finally managed to install the wordpress application for blackberries.

In other news, RIP Kim Daul. Your blog was eccentric, and you always sounded lonely. And I’m very sad you are gone at such a young age.

I hope you’ve found peace. Will miss your online presence.

Long enough ago that it feels integral to who I am, someone called me a cold-hearted bitch. I don’t remember what I’d done or said, I just remember being terrified of soliciting that response again. I didn’t actually think I was a cold-hearted bitch, I just knew I never wanted to be called one.

Over the years I’ve learned what it really feels like to hurt someone. The kind where looking them in the eye breaks you into bits and “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover how much you wish you could take back the judgment, the wound, the “you can’t do it” that should have been a “you can,” the peeling of a carefully constructed exterior to reveal exactly what they hate about themselves.

I canceled a date today over IM.

I hadn’t done it sooner because I was afraid it would be mean. The move of, yes, a cold-hearted bitch. Yet I knew, from the second I said yes to his fourth request for my email address, that I didn’t want to see him again. I wasn’t attracted to him and I didn’t find him interesting, but I let myself be talked into a date by all of the “give him a chance”s people were flinging in my direction. I let his interest in me (and it was Swingers-answering machine-messages-esque interest) be reason enough for me to feel that I should be interested in him.

I’d rather be alone.

I was 15 the first time anyone talked me into dating someone. The Dangerous Ex’s girlfriend at the time did the convincing. I remember liking the guy for approximately two minutes while enjoying free beer and the warmth of his jacket. Beyond that he was rude, pushy, obsessed with football, and dumb. More recently, I dated someone who deserved better. He wanted a small life in a big place with drive-in movies and red-sauce Italian food. He was kind and loving and my head fit perfectly under his chin, but I should have let him go months before I did. Something talked me into our first date…and then I talked myself into our second. He liked me. He really liked me. And for a time that was enough for both of us.

But I’d rather be alone.

This post isn’t about the dumb jock or the sweet kid or even the slightly creepy guy I was to see on Sunday. This post is about me. About finally realizing that I have to ask for what I want. And what I want is something real, something solid, something that requires no convincing. Someone I say yes to not out of fear of being called names, but out of a desire to know more. I want someone who interests me, not just someone who tells me that I interest him. Until then?

I’d rather be alone.

Gracie’s wedding reception will be at 1.30pm, at the Intercontinental.

(Please be seated at 1315Hr)

The wedding service will be followed by a tea reception

I was under the impression last night that the reception would be held at the Amara, where Grace held her 21st birthday party.

This morning I could still remember the party then. The retro theme, all her relatives, the kids. I can’t remember who else went with me, but I do remember Grace scolding me for not being dressed retro enough.

Hey. I was never a clotheshorse.

And today, I will be standing at the sides once again, watching Grace, backed by her chosen ‘Sisters’, getting married to the person she has chosen to spend the rest of her life with.

2 hotel receptions, and in between, time spent and lost, love bid farewell and gained. Frosted with the blessing of friends, icing of conjugal bliss.

Old photo

Hoy 2o de noviembre celebramos el Día Internacional de los Derechos del Niño.

Se cumplen veinte años desde la Convención Sobre los Derechos de los Niños establecida por la Asamblea General de Naciones Unidas. Con 193 ratificaciones, los países firmantes se comprometían entonces a cumplir el Tratado Internacional que les obligaba a proteger los derechos de los niños. Para Ann M. Veneran, Directora Ejecutiva de UNICEF, aquel hecho, que indirectamente celebramos hoy día 20 de noviembre, produjo una profunda transformación en “la manera en que los niños son vistos y tratados en todo el mundo”. Y en la actualidad, más de 70 países, como apunta el periódico El Mundo en su edición digital, han ido incorporando legislación interna para garantizar los principios básicos que fijó la Convención. Entre ellos destacan: la no discriminación, el interés superior del niño en todo aquello que le afecte, el derecho a la vida y a la supervivencia, al desarrollo, a ser escuchado y que su opinión se tenga en cuenta en los temas que le afectan directamente.

A pesar de las buenas intenciones cada seis segundos muere un niño en el mundo. Y aunque el informe de UNICEF, sobre el Estado Mundial de la Infancia, indica los avances alcanzados durante estos veinte años, el trabajo dista mucho de finalizar.

El Estado Mundial de la Infancia de UNICEF ofrece una visión global que con datos positivos como que la cifra anual de niños menores de cinco años que mueren cada año en el mundo se ha reducido en un 28% (de 12,5 millones en 1990 ha pasado a 8,8 millones en 2008). Esta reducción tiene relación directa con el acceso a agua potable; entre 1990 y 2006, más de millón y medio de personas han accedido a agua potable.

La educación es otra de las principales heridas. En lo que se refiere a su accesibilidad, alrededor del 84% de los niños en edad escolar asisten hoy a clases con lo que las brechas y desigualdades se van reduciendo.

Una de las conclusiones de este informe tiene que ver con la protección de los niños para evitar que sean utilizados por adultos sin escrúpulos para formar ejércitos, realizar todo tipo de trabajos y tareas domésticas o caer víctimas de redes de prostitución infantil. Aspectos que suelen acaparar la atención por repulsivos.

Los datos de UNICEF resultan demoledores pues sus protagonistas son unos niños a los que se les roba la infancia. Son datos que imaginamos lejanos, y, aun cuando nos abruman, forman parte de un mundo ajeno al nuestro porque no es posible que en nuestras cómodas sociedades estos hechos ocurran. La inmensa mayoría de los pequeños cuentan con adultos que los protegen, que aseguran sus necesidades básicas. Gracias a nuestros avances y bienestar social nuestros niños juegan y van a la escuela, comen caliente y tienen un techo bajo el que dormir. Sin embargo, España también tiene su dosis de precariedad infantil.

Fotografía de Samuel Sánchez para El País.

El Defensor del Menor de la Comunidad de Madrid, Arturo Canalda, hacía público ayer las nefastas condiciones en las que viven algunos de nuestros menores. La conclusión de su informe anual alude directamente a la Cañada Real, ese limbo residencial donde la ilegalidad cobra impuestos. Y fue, precisamente, la supuesta ilegalidad que sin embargo es tributaria, la que despertó el interés, y no los cerca de 2.000 menores que allí residen “excluidos de los modos y condiciones de vida comunes”. A los que hay que sumar los 100 que pertenecen al poblado chabolista El Gallinero junto con  todos aquellos difíciles de detectar pero que rozan situaciones igual de convulsas.

Arturo Canalda explica que “la mayoría de las vulneraciones de los derechos de los niños que tienen lugar en nuestra región se refieren a la educación y la cultura, la integración social y la protección jurídica”. Cita que recoge hoy la periodista Soledad Alcaide para El País.

La responsabilidad sobre las garantías de los menores para que disfruten de una infancia feliz y segura es colectiva, como bien apuntan desde El Mundo. Los datos con los que hoy reflexiona el planeta, que pasan desde la situación de los niños al hambre y los conflictos que les afectan e implican, próximos o lejanos, contrastan con las ayudas e inversiones que el sector bancario ha recibido (en todo los países del mundo, incluida España) durante el presente año. Y colisionan todavía más cuando descubrimos que sólo 1.000 millones de euros, como pública el diario Público, son necesarios para acabar con el hambre en África oriental. Principal conclusión junto con la indecente ausencia de medidas o soluciones con la que ha terminado la Cumbre por la Seguridad Alimentaria celebrada en Roma, donde, además, los principales líderes políticos mundiales han brillado por su anuncia. Los 60 mandatarios que sí han hecho sentir su presencia dirigen la política de países en vías de desarrollo; será este interés una cuestión de prioridades.

I was glad to have Ugly Betty on demand last night as this handsome devil kept my mind off a lecherous angel.

Photo source: http://www.buddytv.com/articles/csi-miami/profile/adam-rodriguez.aspx

i am interested in other people’s winters. i remember my own from a long long time ago and they all look like moving polaroid pictures. i know what they smell like and who was there, but the people are all in the background and quite tall, so i can’t see their faces. i remember coats.

i am interested in winter in a place where boys wear blue puffy coats their grandmother bought for them at a thrift store or maybe it’s just 1984. where they ride bikes at dusk down neighborhood streets and through side yards and backyards because no one minds.

i am interested in the woods where a boy meets his friends and what they talk about and where they sit or do they stand.

i am interested in his mother who is cooking dinner at home and his father sitting in the recliner watching the news. i am interested in what his grandmother is thinking about in her house across town.

i am interested in his sister upstairs on her rotary phone talking to her best friend about the boy in her math class.

i want the boy to make it home safe and i want his mother to watch her favorite television show. whose turn is it to do the dishes?

sometimes I get drunk and make French Onion Soup. Personally, I think that this will (onedayinthefuturewithMr.RighterThanRight) make me an amazing wife, but if you’d rather think it makes me crazy, then you’re entitled.

(Both might be true.)

Because I can’t seem to put my thoughts into words – in response to Ben’s amazing post, in an attempt to encapsulate my mom’s birthday visit, in the hopes of filling someone, anyone in on where and who and what I’m feeling – I’m going to fall back on the cop out tried and true method of letters I’ll never send.

————–

Dear Kobo,

Seriously?! With the great-smelling candles that only burn in the center and leave unused wax on the sides?! I love you AND I hate you. Fix it.

Annoyed,

BS

————-

Dear Dude Who Signed an Email with His Initials,

I would LOVE to be your dance partner. Your date? Not so sure. I’m kind of over you already…but I’ll see you Sunday afternoon.

At least you’re not another 25-year-old,

BS

————-

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

You are an effing chimney and it’s gross. Seriously, WHO SMOKES ANYMORE? It doesn’t come through my walls, but every once in a while – you know, between 6 and 10 am or 8 and 11 pm – I’d like to be able to use the air shaft to vent my bathroom after a shower. My lord, at least smoke something tolerable like weed.

Not even going to be polite about it anymore,

BS

————

Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

On Friday, when I came home sober from dinner with my mom and you came home wasted leaning on two friends, you made my night when you walked past my door and I heard you say, “A hot girl lives there.”

I now forgive you for parking in my garage space that one time,

BS

————

Dear Nordstrom Bra Fitting Lady,

I love you for the new Chantelle (on sale!) you found for me, but I hate you for deciding that I should go down a band size and up a cup size.

My gazongas love the bra but the flat-chested dancer in my head hates the tag. Really hates it.

Bodaciously yours,

BS

———–

Dear trochanteric bursitis,

My hip says fuck off. I WILL be dancing on Saturday.

The bottle of ibuprofen is coming for you,

BS

———–

Dear Denver/Portland/Palm Beach/St. Helena/Boston/Seattle/Calistoga,

I’ll see you in the next nine months.

Enjoy my travel budget,

BS

———-

Dear Head Injury,

I didn’t need to know that you’re on Facebook. Please go back to the recesses of my memory.

With nostalgia,

BS

Radio city…