So this is Love

This delightful little candy knows the way to my heart: sea salt. I can't get enough of this magical seasoning, especially nestled inside of delicious sweets. The bar had me at first glance, with it's adorable little correspondence packaging-- the embossed gold heart mimicking a wax seal is indeed a nice touch. But the moment I knew that ours was the stuff of lasting love was when I glimpsed the Shelley poem printed on the inside of the wrapper...

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The Winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If though kiss not me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with a bar of chocolate...

Footballer's Delight

With the World Cup finally coming to a frustrating end, I now have little excuse to keep me from resuming some kind of consistent blogging. But today, in honor of the only game I've ever loved, I will forgo the usual discussion of beauty products, pop culture and breasts to attempt something that's going to make my mother's jaw drop: sports writing.

My sporting penchants were set early in life: soccer was always around, my Chilean father ever the advocate with his regulation size ball in the trunk, pulling it out at the site of the smallest stretch of grass, dirt, or empty parking lot. I remember learning how to head the ball one particularly swampy afternoon in late summer of my elementary years, in a parched field landmined with drying dog turds next to Herman Park. After applying my forehead to an underhand toss maybe 4 out of 10 times, he declared me "ready," and sent a short-ranged chip square to my face.

My father had generally taught me that a 6-year-old girl's inclination to sob from pain is not okay. "Toughen up, Pipas. Be a man." But after taking a rock-like punt from a full grown man to the mug, I was having a hard time stifling the tears. Luckily for me, there is crying in soccer. And thus my love affair began.

Many of my friends are not too fond of soccer. The complaints are pretty standard-- you may harbor the same quibblings yourself: nothing happens, there are barely any goals, it's just a bunch of running around, etc. etc. I suppose, if I had not played the game in my childhood and early teen years, I would probably be among the chief carpers, because I certainly have my share of sniveling against other sports (American football! Baseball!). And while I know it can be off-putting to have someone try to convert you to the Other Side simply because they happen to reside there, well... this is my blog.

=)

Why I Love Soccer And You Should Too

Contrary to the notion that "nothing happens," the game is a full 90 minutes (usually more) of solid, unrelenting play. Two 45 minute halves that go mostly uninterrupted (even the most dire injury will be cleared away with the swift discretion of a C.I.A. operation) is a hell of a lot more action than you'll see in say, a 3 second football play or watching baseball players stretch their hamstrings all game. The average midfielder in a soccer match runs MILES (7 or 8, if you're Michael Bradley), on thighs plucked from a prized thoroughbred. Thus, ladies and gents, you don't have to care about the game to get into it: you can just sit back, drink a beer, and let the shameless objectification commence because these guys are fit. Seriously. Soccer players are built like gods straight from Mount Olympus. Case in point-- U.S.A. hero Landon Donovan:

Ah, yes. The good-looking athlete. Thank God for soccer because it seems like there are so many athletes out there looking like Shrek these days. I remember the first time I actually tried to watch an Astros game, looking down at Jeff Bagwell's enormous ass in his white pants. What? I thought. Doesn't he get paid millions and millions of dollars to play sports? Shouldn't he look like Herakles, rippling quads and sinew, delts straining against his jersey? And then I found out that there's really minimal movement required for baseball. If there isn't heart-stopping action, gorgeous players should be a requirement. Period .
(The USA team. They didn't win, but they're certainly easy on the eyes.)

There is pressure, intensity, and emotion in every soccer match, the likes of which you are unlikely to see in any other sport. From superhuman athleticism to personal fouls, faked injuries or booking disputes, you won't want for drama in any given match. Soccer players are coursing adrenaline so thick they simply can't help but succumb to the extreme of every emotion they feel. And who doesn't want to see a grown ass man throwing a full out tantrum?
Now, I'm not much of a sporty jargon user, so I can't support the point as well as say, this guy, but I feel pretty confident declaring that soccer athletes are arguably some of the best athletes playing in any sport the world over. The game requires tremendous stamina, endurance and raw physical power. It ain't some small thang to run for almost 90 solid minutes over a space longer than an American football field while 11 demi-gods do everything in their power to plow you down. Manipulating a ball with your head or body demands perfect timing and unimaginable core strength. And, with no flabby guts slowing up the game, there's some serious break-neck speed, coupled with instantaneous decision making that is often breathtaking to behold. Here, check it out:
Best of all for the fan, there are no obnoxious commercials breaking the mood, nor billions of instant replays blocking out the game at hand: the fan is right there with the players in real time, experiencing each excruciating step up a mountain of intensity so great that the only way for it to end is with some fantastic, impossible athletic feat. And then, under insurmountable odds, the moment breaks in sheer, real emotion. You will find no poker-faced winner or grimly silent loser in this game. Adult men will shed real crocodile tears, will embrace one another in genuine camaraderie, will fall to their knees and shout praise to the floodlit heavens. Plus, who can make the argument that the post-goal celebrations aren't the most incredible celebrations to behold?

Why else do we value sports if we don't need for this spectacle? Call it simulacrum, but if you don't feel your troubles fading into the background you aren't paying attention. I used to doubt the benefits from channeling all of your stress and frustrations into a professional sporting event, but I can say now with full confidence that I not only understand the phenomenon but also support it. There's simply no doubting the cathartic and unifying effects of sports. Not once I found myself, tears streaming down my face, reflecting on recent troubles with a much lighter heart. Seriously. I could've been hanging out with one of my least favorite, pompous, obnoxious acquaintances, but witnessing that Donovan goal in the 90-something minute of the Algeria game and there would've been genuine, full-bodied bear hugs in order. Watching all that man-love on the field is just bewitching.
The World Cup pulled me out of the nasty, almost 3 month case of the Mean Reds I've been suffering after a wedding contract job went sour and my writing hit a major wall. The frustration, anger and outrage churning in my gut was enough to have me jumping into a superfluous and asinine court case over $200 with a passive aggressive bridezilla who seemed to believe that paying an inexperienced independent designer a little more than minimum wage would sufficiently cover a progressive list of jobs appropriate for an entire team of florists, designers and movers. Any bitch who figured that formula somehow entitled her to the perfect, problem-free wedding of her dreams obviously doesn't live on a planet where reason and logic roam free, but pride caused me to briefly consider taking the thing to small claims.

Luckily, after promising the Boogs not to do anything rash for at least a week, the tournament began. And, in those precious hours each day spent following ESPN.com and engaging in some major shit-talking with fellow supporters, I found all the anger and helplessness with the Crazy Bride melting away. What did I care about a bat-shit princess when I had referees and Argentina to endure my wrath? How could I sit around feeling sorry for myself when the U.S. was devastated after our best-ever run, or when Ghana went to penalty kicks after Suarez's outrageous Devil's Hand? The sound of an entire continent's collective heartbreak as they watched their last African hope fall out of the tournament was all the perspective I required to shrug away my now meager troubles.

(Suarez's desperate handball prevents a Ghanan goal in the last few minutes of overtime halves, pushing the game to penalty kicks)

Though none of my 5 picks made it to the final two (I was pulling for Ghana for third, Germany to win), and though I backed the Dutch in a game that will forever be etched into the books as one of the scrappiest, dirtiest, least-soccer-played finals in World Cup history (seriously, if Howard Webb red carded every time it was deserved, the match could have easily turned into some coo-coo banana circus event of 9 on 11, not that the Netherlands weren't asking for it) I bid South Africa farewell with a light, grateful heart. Thanks WC. See you in Brazil 2014.

Here, some articles on Why Americans Should Love Soccer, an excellent argument Supporting the Most Un-American Aspect of The Sport.

Hi, how've ya been?

Hello dear blog-followers (Hi Ari! Hi Mal!):

I haven't forgotten about you, I promise. I've got half a dozen blog posts half-started in my "To Be Edited" folder, I swear. But I've been fighting a bad case of the Mean Reds this past month or so, and just couldn't bear to pull out another filler YouTube video, or some mediocre commentary on pop culture fads. I needed a break, I needed to regroup: do some Pilates, clean out the studio, drink some wine. No good blogging could come from these things, I think. And so it was for you, dear reader (Mal! Ari!) that I abstained from the drunken blog post, or the post-yoga meditation on the BP oil spill and Lady Gaga. Life's too short to read Bad Blogs, I reasoned.

And so consider this my solemn vow, dear ones, that I am going to return to the semi-regular posting quite soon, and that I have gathered quite the delicious array of fodder for your eagerly seeking creative non-fiction blogging needs (bad weddings! lover's quarrels! Facebook faux-pas!). I do think, however, that I needed to ease my way back into the conversation on neutral, if not positive terms, as I'm afraid that most of these topics lead me to chugging the Haterade (Bridezillas! Art reality shows! Creating-fake-practice-family-portraits-with-someone-else's-child-on-Facebook-like-a-psycho-asshole!) and I'm not too keen on alienating my dear readers on the pretense of bitching.

And so, I'd like to reopen the dialogue with a list of recent obsessions: things that make me happy, things that I cannot stop using/buying/consuming/thinking about/watching. This is, to say the least, MY Tiffany's, the only surefire cure for the Mean Reds.

1. Rompers.

I am totally obsessed. I have three of them, and the moment I come home I hop out of my clothes at a speed that would inspire Warner Bros. to reexamine the Road Runner, and slip into one of these cotton, full-bodied numbers that make me feel cozy, practical and sexy. Every time the Boogs comes home and finds me doing Pilates, reading, or cooking in one of these ingenious sartorial inventions, he calls out "Romper!" and I stop what I'm doing, and frolic. Just for a moment. They are so, so delicious.

2. Say Yes to Carrots Body Butter.

I found this in a mini travel size at Target and I cannot stop putting it on my hands and arms. It is creamy, light, and soft, everything a good dessert mousse should be, for your skin. The smell is subtle and clean, and if I can't control the fervor with which I rub it all over myself in public, I'm afraid I'm going to just have to start eating it.

3. PG Tips

I was introduced to this delicious tea last summer when the Boogs and I lived in the Catskills with two Brooklyn artists and their young son Jasper. (Check out their sites on the links provided!) At night, after the Jasper had been put (usually temporarily) to sleep and we all retired to our studios for late-night contemplation, Kirsten and I would make enormous mugs of PG tips with milk and raw sugar. I developed a bit of an obsessive craving for the stuff and was abruptly cut off when we were traveling shortly thereafter. Upon our return to the US we were so absurdly poor that it wasn't until this past month that I finally felt totally comfortable buying the whole damn 80 satchel box at Whole Foods. Tis heavenly at 10 o'clock at night, with a big hard back book and graham crackers.

4. Anthropologie dishware

All of which were purchased today with the help of my handy-dandy family discount card courtesy of the Boogs' job (he's the display artist at Urban). I cannot tell you how long I have coveted the latte bowls, nor can I fully express what joy it brings me to see them stacked now, next to a bottle of wine and a big white Anthro bag with those spartan, elegant red handles. I believe we've called this feeling "happiness," though it seems to fall devastatingly short of what I'm currently experiencing.

5. The World Cup. More specifically, the USA team in the World Cup.

I know this may seem like an unlikely transition, given all the beauty and food items listed before it, but I am equally obsessed (if not more so) with this year's World Cup. I came into it with what I thought was a very "realistic" approach: given the stats and my own instincts, I settled upon a rough Top Five of Germany, Ghana, Mexico, Chile and the US. While Ghana and Germany are definitely abreast my expectations, Chile and the US have far exceeded them, and I am happy to say that I am fully backing our dear country in the upcoming elimination round. I was skeptical, though unsurprised, by their performance against England and Slovenia (our defense was wild, if not pathetic) but the Algeria game that won us our group (first time since 1930!!!!!) makes them worthy not only of their spot against Ghana in the elimination round (a totally worthy team, a strong and surprising group) but also of my total, 100% undying support.

I saw on the ol' FB that many-a non-soccer fan (re: the vast majority of my American friends) were confused- nay- resentful of the sudden outpouring of support and soccer-love via status updates. "Where did all these soccer fans come from??" they queried, not without judgement, not without a tone that would imply that we futbol-watchers were Sunday-supporters, fair weather fans. To these skeptics I say this: I never hear you wondering "where did all these Olympics fans come from!?" during the games. The World Cup also occurs every 4 years, and thus, we are fully informed, fully saturated, fully satisfied. Deal with it.

And, USA v. GHANA, SATURDAY JUNE 26th, 2:30 ET. Be there.

A love of elephantine proportion.

In honor of today, here's a photo of me and my Mama, circa 1986:

I know. I was heart-meltingly cute. It's been kind of a tough thing to keep up with.

My mother is one of the most dedicated, kind, and patient women in the world. She is also stunningly beautiful, and by some fluke in the Universe's genetic lotteries, my face favors hers over Dad's. And for that, I am completely and totally grateful.

To my incredible mama, from whom I received cheekbones, little-to-no body hair, and lady feet that fit the tiny-size shoes always on super sale at department stores (they look larger in the photo).

Thanks for everything.

Baiting for Hobnobs

Once upon a time, I was a mingling champion. I was at home in any scenario: art opening, baseball game, youth gathering held with various religious organizations or schools. I could spend the afternoon discussing the finer points of the Container Store's fabric closet shelves with my neighbor to hitting a friend-of-a-friend's impromptu pool party for some light skinny dipping and jello shots with strangers. Musicals, potlucks, school dances-- I could take to the mix like a well-timed toss of a twist of lemon or pinch of sea salt to, well, everything. I was amazing.

...in a dream I had once. I'm not saying I suck at fraternizing with strangers at any given function, but I'm not saying I'm awesome either. It's nothing, in short, that a few glasses of complimentary cheap red wine can't cure (or so I like to believe. It is, however, somewhat of a joke amongst my loved ones that I'm a surefire champ at The Intense Drunk Conversation. "It's your way of dancing topless on tables," said my college roommate).

In any case, somewhere along the line, I developed a small case of pre-mingling jitters I can't seem to shake. I blame the zodiac-- between the social Libra and the moody crustacean, I seem to have developed performance anxiety. Once or twice, this unfortunate habit ended in either the telling of a super inappropriate topic way too early in the event (because I'm certain David's boss would have thought that my joke about octopus vaginas was hilarious after a third round of cocktails), or in the incredibly unfunny, esoteric stories about poetry ("I mean, seriously, what's John Updike's deal anyway? I'd rather have a colonoscopy than read one of his masturbatory characters again. Hahaha-- get it? Colonoscopy? Get it??").

The thing is, I've got a penchant for names and faces (it's actually listed as an extra skill on my resume and has, not just once, garnered additional interest for a job). But most people seem to lack the attention span required to remember the names of their coworkers, let alone the surnames and birthdates of their Kindergarten classmates (it's true, I remember all 12). My gift served me well as the sidekick of my ever-forgetful stepfather at pretty much every social occasion in memory, but most of the time it's simply a burden that appears to reap far more embarrassment than accolades (try explaining to someone you haven't seen in 9 years why you remembered to ask about Vanilla, their cockapoo, or whether their mother Sandra ever figured out how to get around her shellfish allergy at the family restaurant).

And so, as my enthusiasm for mingling has been replaced with self-consciousness, I don what appears to be a pleasant but serious expression of interest (as pictured above, courtesy of Bmore Art) while I nod diplomatically and await the magical properties of alcohol to take effect. I look like an semi-understanding, partially medicated Kindergarten teacher.

Tomorrow, I'm heading to Roanoke to attend the Last Jitterbug and to do the good thing and reacquaint myself with the faculty and staff I will be working with come fall. And, truth be told, I am terrified of that whole awkward half-recognizing one another thing: you know, the "Hey-" oh, they weren't looking at me. Oh wait, yes, "yea-- HEY, oh," but not that friendly they don't remember my name. Hands? "Yeah-oh yes, let's shake.. no! Haha, just kidding" ha, yeah, no need to touch, I'll just scratch my arm here and rock back a step or two.. "Right, so.. did you say there was a bar?"

But here, here! Let it be known that this trip will mark a new direction for my pre-hobnobbing apprehension. Utilizing a kind of carrot-on-a-fishing-pole-technique, I'm going to pretend I am that elbow-rubbing warrior of my dreams. I am going to allow myself to react, to smile, to express emotions that don't denote a recent round of Botox regardless of how many times I remember the person's name (..and rank and serial number) only to be introduced as "She," because: I booked myself a fancy room in the big fancy hotel with my grant money (travel for a reading = poetry funding, YES) and I fully intend on sinking into my pillow top King with a big-ass glass of not-so-cheap red wine at the end of the night.

Disquietude be damned.

In Which I Lament Early Blooming

My breasts came in when I was 9. I remember the latter parts of elementary school not as the joyful, carefree days spent doodling in textbooks with my smelly peers, but as a time of overwhelming self-consciousness. It happened overnight: I came down to breakfast in my nightdress, quite unaware of the new addition to my chest, and stopped cold at my brother's wild-eyed, ecstatic face. It was the look wrought only from a gift passed down from on high, a sign that you are being blessed by the hand of God himself: it was the undeniable recognition of your older sister's greatest humiliation. He ran from the room, and, standing in the grey morning light I felt the slightest tenderness coming from something swelling over my breastbone. Ringing out, as though shouted from the highest mountaintop, I heard my brother's now-infamous cry: MOM, Steph's got big ones!

With the misguided logic of a hormonal preteen, I began wearing my brother's left over Beefy T's-- you know, all the radio and sporting event freebies that the chubster himself couldn't fill out. I refused a bra, under the equally as misguided notion that to wear one was toacknowledge them, thereby making them real. So I endured the 4th and 5th grade in shin-length Umbro soccer shorts and enormous white t-shirts that draped in two stiff tents from my budding chest. Shortly thereafter, my brother was blessed further: I had developed a ruddy case of acne and acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses. Did I mention that I was in my 3rd year of braces? And that the braces were an experiment in orthodontia by my elderly and somewhat blundering dentist?

In short, I had it going on.

While my forehead remained a breeding ground for volcanically active whiteheads and I kept the braces, wire-rimmed glasses and, for a short while, a blunt shoulder-length haircut in the shape of a yield sign, it was really only my breasts with whom I waged war. Not until my flat-chested comrades began donning tiny training bras would I even consent to a sports bra (6th grade) and I would often wear 2 and sometimes 3 shirts to buffer their shape. I crossed my arms over them, covered them with my books, hunched my back to counteract how horribly convex they were. And the boobs fought back: they just kept growing. They grew and they grew....

Until..

Just kidding.

I do, however, consider myself the gracious loser of this round of "My Pubescent Stories Are Sadder and More Embarrassing Than Yours." If you're in the mood for a good cry, and you think you can handle the classy kind of journalism over at The Sun, here's the link:

Bed-Bound By My Big Boobs.

How Lady Gaga got schooled

A few posts ago, I lamented the lost art of the Pop Music Video. I never thought I would have to look to the military to appease my need for booty-shakin' good.

I mean, really: group choreography is the scientifically proven answer for pop success. They didn't even need cleavage, and it's still better than the over-budgeted, over-acted weakling skin flick that was the original Gaga video.