I Get By With a Little Help From My Family and Friends

I cannot pretend that life is a walk in the park. It's so easy to feel sorry for oneself in this world full of injustice, strife, hunger, poverty, hate, and war (the list could go on, but I'll stop there.) It's so easy to want to give up, to throw one's hands up in the air, to look longingly over the side of a bridge, to write dark and sordid poetry, to contemplate the thought that life just might be easier if one just didn't have to live through it.

Despite these thoughts, what for me constitutes a hard, difficult, and even unlucky existence here in the United States is downright peachy compared to what other souls must endure in other lands. This does not erase feelings of hopelessness completely for me on a personal level, but it helps to put things in perspective.

As I age, instead of turning inward, I've learned to appreciate the glimmers of sunshine that peak through in a mostly dreary existence........

.......Children laughing................................


...........My kitty cat's loving gaze...................






...........A bumble bee buzzing about in the flowers....................


...............Grizzly Bear.............................




.......fireflies...........

Most of all, I continue to barrel through life because of my loved ones. My family. My mother. My father. My brothers. My sisters-in-law. My nephews. My nieces. My grandparents. My Tante. My aunts. My uncles. My cousins. My second cousins. My boyfriend. Friends that are dear. Friends that are near. Friends that are far but just as close to my heart. Friends that I've lost and friends that have magically and unexpectedly appeared again. Thank you, my dear ones. Thank you for allowing me to lean on your shoulder, laugh with you, cry with you, hug you, kiss you, be silly with you, sing karaoke with you, yell at you (thank god that you have put up with me and my terrible temper), eat with you, drink with you, cook with you, write to you, and whatever else we've done together, I for you, you for me, or you apart. I am forever grateful and will continue to be so as I live this difficult life.

One of Those Days....

While riding my bike to work this morning, I contemplated the beautiful weather. This summer has been a veritable sauna, and by the time I get to work every day, my back is soaked to the bone with sweat, and my brow is not only covered with helmet marks but with beads of salty water. This morning however was different. It was absolutely gorgeous: overcast instead of sunny and cool instead of sweltering. I decided that I wouldn't book it to work but that I would leisurely roll along on my commute to enjoy the beautiful weather. As I pedaled, random thoughts crept into my head. . .

"No skirt, I'm good to go."

"God damn it. You there---bicyclist--yes you---that's a stooooooooppppppp sign. Just because you're a bicyclist does NOT mean that you're exempt to traffic laws."

"Look how good I am. I'm waiting at the stop-light. . . until. it.turns...green...even though a car isn't coming....jesus...I should just run the light...noooo....yes....noooo...yesss....nooooo, I'm not exempt to traffic laws."

"Bicyclists need to be doubly defensive drivers. They not only have to protect themselves from cars but from other bicyclists who think that they're exempt to the rules of the road. Hey. I should write a blog post about this. I'll call it 'On the Double Defensive'. Yeah!"

"I should have eaten breakfast."

The thoughts rambled on. Somewhere in there, I stopped at a stop light as a good little bicyclist should. And then I looked down. Somehow, while waiting at the stoplight, I turned my palm face-up (how does that happen on a bicycle?), and a bird took the liberty of shitting on my palm. Now, I was immediately and thoroughly repulsed, but I had to maintain my composure. After all, I have my bicyclist image to maintain and cannot be publicly wriggling and writhing in disgust. So instead of publicly showing my disgust, I did the next best thing and maintained my palm open and upward-facing. With the light turning green and with two blocks remaining on my bike commute, I had to think quickly. It wasn't rocket science, but I decided to use my fingertips to maneuver the bicycle and the break. Thank god the shit didn't hit the fan...or the handlebar. Still, I think the bird was trying to tell me that it was going to be one of those days.....

The Most Beautiful Music Review in the World

Last night I read a music review. Like the vast majority of American youth (this is a hypothesis, as I've no data to confirm this notion), I am addicted to the internet and read countless blogs. As I'm obsessed with music, I perused the DC Brightest Young Things (a blog dedicated to DC events and nightlife) to read about musicians that have recently come through Washington, DC. One such group is She & Him, to whom I have absolutely no allegiance but decided to read because a member of the group, Zooey Dechanel, intrigues me. I like Zooey Deschanel as an actress. She is beautiful, she's got style, and she always plays the quirky one. In that regard, I think she is beginning to be typecast (or perhaps she typecasts herself) in the role of "I'm so beautiful, I'm so cute, I'm so quirky, I'm so cool, all men want me, and all women want to be me." I am referring in particular to two virtually identical movies where she plays the lead: 500 Days of Summer and Gigantic . Hopefully, she doesn't overdo this persona, because it would be a shame to return to the movies to see the same character played over and over again in a regurgitation of the same movie. (I suppose now would be a good time for some pictures.)


(Yikes. Yes Man.)


Still, despite the fact that she is obviously a very attractive individual and an entertaining actress, I have little desire to listen to her chirp away to saccharin-sweet melodies, which is what I imagine her songs to be. (Honestly, I've tried, but I don't think I could listen to her singing voice for twelve songs in a row--I'm sorry: I know that this is kind of mean, but it's true.)

As little of an Z.D.-as-musician as I am, I am still curious as to how she fares as part of a duo. I am also curious as to how She & Him were received by the DC public (and I admit, I am curious about what she wore.) Just as I'd imagined, the reviewer was not impressed by the band so much. However, after I read the review, I no longer cared about Zooey, or what she wore while she bounced around the stage. I was more intrigued than ever by the author of the breathtakingly-written review. The language that the reviewer used absolutely boggled my mind, and I must say, I wish I could use language in that manner. I must raise my glass to Phillip Runco. Here's my favorite part of the review, which I've graciously stolen from BYT.com:

But it’s still valid to wonder how much She & Him is merely a well-executed genre exercise, and in light of that, how much we want to encourage such straight faced revivalism. Her taste is admirable and her aim is true, but her unwillingness to push beyond the most basic conventions of her influences places a clear ceiling on what she is able to achieve, and ultimately undermines our ability to connect with her beyond a shared appreciation of things past.

Did you read that? It's pure poetry. He says exactly what is stuck in my head but will never fashion itself into words. Whatever, Zooey Dechanel. You're pretty. You have a mediocre band. But can you formulate a sentence like Phillip Runco?

From this moment, I will pay tribute to Phillip Runco. I am now his most devoted fan. I just wish I could post pictures of him dressed to the nines in a blue diamond encrusted dress.

Needs and Wants

Courtesy of Refinery 29.

I need this skirt. I found it on Refinery 29, but unfortunately, it is a snapshot from a streetstyle blog, which means that there is no way to divine its origin. Refinery 29 suggests a JCrew replica, but I don't believe that the JCrew version does the original skirt any justice.

Courtesy of jcrew.com.

Case in point above.

Unfortunately, even if said skirt magically flashed itself in front of me under screaming, psychedelic neon lights, I would not be able to buy it because of my extremely precarious financial situation. My only respite is that my fashion desires are as fleeting as fashion trends themselves, and I must remind myself that although I will not have this skirt, another equally-as-brilliant swath of fabric will present itself soon (and hopefully then, I will be able to afford it.)

Happy Belated Birthday, Frida!

Yesterday was Frida Kahlo's birthday. She would have been 103 years old.



Frida was a singular and outspoken woman who, as a public figure, eschewed modern trends in favor of traditional mexican styles. Her self-portraits bravely displayed publicly her solitary thoughts and inner turmoil at a time (and in a culture) when a woman's thoughts were best kept to herself. Despite her catapult to fame, she never forgot that she was a Mexican woman, and this fact was apparent in every action that she took and every canvas that she painted. Her paintings and even her dress were infused with a mix of vibrant colors inherent in the indigenous cultures of Mexico and other traditional styles predominant in Mexico at the time.

Even today, fifty-something years after her premature death, she remains an influential style figure. Just look at the recent spread in Vogue Germany.




source: http://projectrungay.blogspot.com/2010/02/vogue-germany-claudia-schiffer-as-frida.html

Honestly, I feel a little guilty juxtaposing images of the divine Frida Kahlo with German Vogue's images of a costumed Claudia Schiffer. These two do not warrant coverage on the same page: Frida was, as I've stated earlier, a singular woman who broke the barriers of her time and culture, while Claudia (in my opinion) was/is just a pretty face with a good body. But come on, guys and gals: it's VOGUE. Millions of women flip through the pages of the glossy every month. An editorial that graces its pages influences countless women, and by costuming a nineties uber model in a unibrow (which Frida adamantly refused to pluck) and traditional Mexican garb, millions of readers become inspired not only by the images created by the photographer, the clothing designer, and the stylist, but indirectly by the woman that initially inspired those artists as well, who in this case, would be our beloved Frida. Indeed, such a move on Vogue's part becomes quite the homage to the painter and political activist.