College Saporosity at its finest...

I wasn't even that mad, but the motions were already in my body: get dressed, gather belongings, stay silent, leave.

I didn't even have to think about what was happening.

Did I mention I wasn't even mad?

I stormed out of the house, plunging into the rape infested neighborhood, though- these days...what college town isn't rape infested?

Moments after, I heard the sound of foot steps behind me.

I can't remember what he said. I can't remember what I said.

And after he dropped out of sight I was afraid to turn around.

Mad that he'd be there, and mad that he wouldn't.

Maidenform visited campus today, measuring the bust lines of saggy girls and giving them the equipment to battle the effects of gravity on their womanly parts. It was very humorous to see the tremendously long line of girls waiting to receive free undergarments. I opted to sit politely out of the way, noshing on pineapple chunks, making fun of the bra promotion that could also have passed for free Botox day in Beverly Hills.

I even saw one girl, with like 48 F basoomas walk away empty handed. I imagined a Maidenform representative saying “get a reduction and come back later Fatty”… though I don’t think it really panned out that way. When it comes to things (more or less) worn under my clothing, I consider myself an underwear lush. Nothing feeds my soul more than a pretty polka dotted Calvin Klein demi cup, but you couldn't pay me enough to get me to indulge in such a personal ( and practically religious) ritual on a lawn outside the Student Center.

I haven’t mentioned thus far, but feel inclined to do so now, the Naval Ball. The night went off fairly well. My date was a boozer, but a much better dancer after a few drinks so I had no reason to complain. The prime rib was grizzly so I didn’t eat much of it, but was probably better off cause then I had more room for vodka tonics. And of course my dress looked much better on me than it did on Joaquin Phoenix’s Mom at the Oscars.

If I take one thing away from the night, let it be that words cannot express how grateful I am not to be like those drunk Fordham girls in cheap dresses gathering around mirrors to reapply glittery red lipstick.


Thank God for class and sass (and handsome Navy boys).

So I made a deal with myself- If I ran to the conveinent store, I could get ice cream. So I ran the whole minuet and a half it takes to get there, plucked a pint of Karamel Sutra out of the freezer, and ran back. The running was only partly influenced by the extreme amount of calories I was about to consume, but had more to do with that fact that it was 9:55 and Real World was about to start. Needless to say I made it back in time.

Beautiful weather, such as we’ve been experiencing lately in the tri-state area tend to bring out the best and worst in people. I’d like now to take the time to make an entirely serious and constructive statement:

Just because it’s 63 degrees outside ladies, doesn’t give you the liberty to leave your basomas unsupported. Why does warm weather make you think it's ok forgo on your womanly commitments like supporting your D cups (or A cups as my case might be)?

On the other hand, beautiful weather does allow more space for gauchos and for that I am grateful.


It’s been a good week thus far. Now only if I could find the perfect pair of espadrilles….

Today has been very good so far. I slept until 11. Did a sulfer facial mask treatment. Ate an orange for my scurvy. Who knows what else is in store for me?



I feel possibilities.

Don't you love morning transit?

I'm not talking about aggravating morning stop 'n go traffic when you spill your chai latte all over your dry clean only white Marino wool sweater... I mean the hustle and bustle of a good morning complete with perfectly straight hair, well fitting underwear, minimal crumbs from your fat free muffin across your bust line.

Sometimes I just like the feeling of being a lost face in a sea of commuters. Newspapers rustle, the faint smell of coffee in paper cups, a slight buzzing from ipods belonging to middle aged business whom once were to cool for CD players, but find it perfectly acceptable to steal the novice of fancy new gadgets from the youth....

Sorry, I digress.

Anyway, who saw Hello Sister, Goodbye Life last night?
Lacey Chabert. Classic.

I hate to be the devil's advocate, but I don't think a pleasantly plump Britney Spears is all that bad. Geeze, I wish I could guiltlessly enjoy frothy Starbucks beverages as often as she does while sitting on millions and a claim to fame that I once was the most desirable woman in America.

Leave her, her uggs, her ill-fitting sundresses, and her Caramel Frappuccinos alone! She had a baby for christ sake. All you had was her CD.

I am guilty.

Right about now you are probably finishing that sentence in your head with words like: of murder, of gluttony, of feeling sorry for myself after every episode of "The Fabulous life of..." on VH1.

Aside from the things thus mentioned (which are applicable in some cases), I am guilty of stealing make-up. And no I'm not a Sephora eye shadow pocketer. I take make-up from my Mother. Despite the fact that I am a poor college student with aspirations to be a trophy wife, but funds lacking such ambitions and have no other option than to pilfer beauty products from others, my Mom has really good stuff. It was because of her, after all, that I discovered the magic of compact powder at age 10, volume enhancing hair mousse by 12, and pasties under backless dresses by 14.

One of my most vivid slash horrific memories is me standing in front of the mirror the morning of my 6th grade class picture and crying because I had smeared extra noir Maybelline Lash enhancing mascara all over my cheek. (Come 'on, you can't expect an 11 year old to have the steady expert hand of sophisticated lady.) I had no idea what to do and was particularly certain my Mother would be mad, not for going through her make-up bag, but for developing make-up habits that could justifiably be compared to those of a hooker. Quietly I walked, plank style, out of the bathroom and peered my head around the corner of the kitchen where my Mom was buttering toast or mustarding ham sandwiches or whatever. Right away she saw my distressed look of make-up anguish and with out saying anything took me back into the bathroom and removed the mascara strone across my cheek with a little bit of lotion and a tissue. I was amazed. I still use that technique to this day.

Two summers ago my Mother came back from California with this stuff called Bareminerals. I passed it off as an old lady line of products after recalling an infomercial I had seen for it a few months back. That was until this past December, over a year after my Mom had been using Bareminerals, I finally discovered the wonderfulosity that it possessed. You see, I had a predicament involving a big giant plushy powder brush and no loose powder. Hearing my whines of misery my Mother came bearing gifts. Two small jars of loose powder. One skin colored(Mineral Veil) and one pink(Clear Radiance). Mineral Veil was a powder foundation. A powder foundation? I was skeptical. I wasn’t ready to trade in my Clinique Super Balance for a product I originally thought was meant to fill the appearance of wrinkles (though I've been proved wrong since). Bareminerals is the best thing in the beauty industry since 2-in-1 shampoo conditioner. Aside from the incredible effects of the powder foundation that I am ashamed to say I doubted, I am absolutely obsessed obsessed obsessed with Clear Radiance. It's pinkish rosy hue is 'not a blush, not yet a bronzer' (<---an intended Britney Spears lyric pun that failed miserably). It leaves me blushing, like a bride, minus the reception debt to pay off and a lazy good for nothing husband. Thank god.

So, thanks Mom, for not complaining when I continue to take, use, and abuse pretty much everything you have and call it my own.

I used to have a way with words and men. Now I have a way with one man and a stream of unwitty, uninsightful cyberspace clogging online journals.

So I'm starting over. One might say I'm a genius born again blogger. One also might say, I'm a materialistic lunatic who wears too many layers (and too many squirts of Chanel Chance).


Take your pick, though I suggest the latter.