February 22, 2011


You know, cheap pizza and a good bottle of wine is a perfectly acceptable meal. If there’s anything living in Italy taught me, it’s that.
XOXO

You know, cheap pizza and a good bottle of wine is a perfectly acceptable meal. If there’s anything living in Italy taught me, it’s that.

XOXO

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Food Italia Life Lessons Vino Recipes

March 25, 2011


I just finished 4 solid days with TGIS. 

The final casualty toll is 3 home-cooked meals, 2 days cleaning the room before he got home from work, 1 hole in the wall, 3 fights, countless “I’m sorry”s, lots of smoking, 3 nights of great sleep, a “You’re so nice to me” and a “You are fantastic” a piece, and 1 invitation out to dinner with him and his dad. Tumultuous and passionate, oh my.

If we made it through that, I’m convinced we’re pretty golden.

XOXO

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Relationships TGIS Life Life Lessons Cohabitation

June 28, 2011


amoammo:

I can never run for senator. There’s nudes out there of mine…

Secondeddddd. 
We seem to like our politicians like we liked our priests…with absolutely no sex lives.
AND LOOK WHERE THAT GOT US.
XOXO

amoammo:

I can never run for senator. There’s nudes out there of mine…

Secondeddddd. 

We seem to like our politicians like we liked our priests…with absolutely no sex lives.

AND LOOK WHERE THAT GOT US.

XOXO

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Life Life Lessons Tumblr Whores Nekkid Politics Hilarious

June 29, 2011


"There’s nothing wrong with lovin’ who you are," she said, “‘Cause he made you perfect, babe." So hold your head up girl and you’ll go far; listen to me when I say— No matter gay, straight, or bi, lesbian, transgendered life, I’m on the right track, baby, I was born to survive. No matter black, white or beige, Chola or Orient made, I’m on the right track, baby, I was born to be brave.

Fear no bitch.

XOXO

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Bad Ass Bitches Music Women Self-Awareness Confidence Life Lessons

July 8, 2011


When I was 14, I finally— after years of campaigning, begging, pleading, and coaxing riding lessons out of my parents— got my own horse. At first, we didn’t exactly get along. We were too similar. Both diminutive with over-large personalities to make up for stature. Both blonde, and convinced that that meant we deserved something more in life. Both a little punk-rock— I incorporated my love of all things studded and black into our show bridle; since a mane-roaching incident in her early years, my horse has always maintained a perfectly coiffed mohawk. We both had strong opinions of what we should be doing: I was Olympic or bust; she spent most of her time plotting how to craft a hole in her grazing muzzle so she could eat more while hoping for increased pasture time.
For the first two years, there were a lot of highs, and a lot of lows. I met Olympians. I trained with Olympians. I spent over 250 days a year at the barn. There were a lot of tears. We fought each other constantly before settling on uneasy truces. I fell off mid-jump course enough times to realize my horse could see better distances than I could, and I was better off letting her take the reins, and just holding tight, sitting pretty, and smiling for the judge. She chewed more holes in more muzzles, got fatter, and ended up paying for it with more conditioning gallops up and down the hills around the barn. We ended up growing exceptionally close through adversity, conflict, and mutual resolution. Some days, I won; some days, she won. I found conceding defeat to a pint-sized pony with a mohawk and an attitude problem was a good medication to my growing show-ego.
After that, for awhile, we were an ultimate team. We put the mileage down to prove it across New York and the North East. To this day, the majority of results you find if you Google me are show results from those years. They’re not too shabby, either. But after awhile, the rush of competition started to lose its thrill, and the 4 AM mornings and hours spent anxiously watching the trailer behind us from the cramped backseat of the farm’s truck was replaced by quiet moments at the barn— late night rides after work when my trainer and I were the only people left.
Though I was un-diagnosed at the time, I’ve struggled with hereditary depression and the side effects of self-harming obsessive-compulsive disorder since my early teens. Before Zoloft, the feeling I got while riding at 8 o’clock at night, thoroughly exhausted, when everything came together and I could feel my SuperPony softening on the bit and accepting it; when energy and movement flowed freely between us into perfect leg-yields, turns on the fore, turns on the hind, collected canters, and that one, perfect, perfect moment of canter-pirouette while making a turn on a jump course— that was what kept me sane. If my hands were on the reins, I couldn’t be pulling my hair out of my head in chunks (which I did). If I was so completely focused on putting 4 strides between two jumps instead of 5 that I forgot to breathe, I sure as hell couldn’t let the intense, extreme and overwhelming fears of social awkwardness, adrift-ness, and emptiness that usually bombarded me register. To this day, I have no doubt that my horse gave better results than any therapist could have, had my mother acknowledged at the time my issues. Instead, someone with 4 legs who stands 14.1 hands (without shoes!) did, and filled the parts of me that I hated with something else in those moments— elation, which I did not, at the time, think was possible.
And in the years since— while in college and too busy trying to get the grades that the institution and my parents expected; while abroad and a complete fish out of water in the land of Marinara; and now, post-grad, presently medicated, and totally at a loss about where to go with my life— nothing’s changed about that feeling, and the power that is has to move me. Even if I can’t make the trip to the barn for a month, or even two or three, what keeps me going on the worse days, or every time I anxiously wait for a plane to take off while being 110% certain that this one will be the one whose engine fails and goes down, or when I am convinced that my landlord hates me, my bank would love to kill me, my friends have given up on me, and it’s just not enough to be my parent’s daughter or my incredible partner’s girlfriend, knowing that my horse— another living being who can read my emotions and my intentions so well when we work that I whole-heartedly believe that those amazing creatures are in fact sensitive enough to feel your gaze shift and respond to that— has for years and continues to accept and heal me within half an hour of quiet, silent, affectionate understanding…that is what gets me through. 
Some people don’t, and can’t, understand this. They have never been and will never be an equestrian. Other riders may not have found their perfect equine partner yet. Some have. They’ll tell you their horse is like their child. They’ll tell you it’s like falling in love at first sight. Like finding a soul mate on four legs. Like being one— a centaur in the dressage ring. They’ll tell you that their horse’s courage gave them the courage to believe that they could make it through and Intermediate cross country course alive. They’ll say that their horse saved them, time and time again, when friends and family couldn’t. At various times in my life, I could tell you that all of the above statements have been true for me at one time or another, but the biggest and best thing that my horse has given me was a feeling of complete and utter perfect, clear normality, even when my own mind wouldn’t give me that freedom. She did, and that’s why I treasure her so much— she showed me the emotionally-rich and happy person that I had the ability to be and have become. And for that, I think I owe it to her to stick with her through the hard times, since she was there through mine.
A horse is not just an animal; to its rider, it is an extension of themselves, their heart, their body. When I have one of those truly great rides— those once-a-year rides when someone passing stops to watch because it just looks so. damn. EASY…I have no idea where I end and where she begins. Can you tell me, with a bond like that, where do you decide to sever it?
XOXO

When I was 14, I finally— after years of campaigning, begging, pleading, and coaxing riding lessons out of my parents— got my own horse. At first, we didn’t exactly get along. We were too similar. Both diminutive with over-large personalities to make up for stature. Both blonde, and convinced that that meant we deserved something more in life. Both a little punk-rock— I incorporated my love of all things studded and black into our show bridle; since a mane-roaching incident in her early years, my horse has always maintained a perfectly coiffed mohawk. We both had strong opinions of what we should be doing: I was Olympic or bust; she spent most of her time plotting how to craft a hole in her grazing muzzle so she could eat more while hoping for increased pasture time.

For the first two years, there were a lot of highs, and a lot of lows. I met Olympians. I trained with Olympians. I spent over 250 days a year at the barn. There were a lot of tears. We fought each other constantly before settling on uneasy truces. I fell off mid-jump course enough times to realize my horse could see better distances than I could, and I was better off letting her take the reins, and just holding tight, sitting pretty, and smiling for the judge. She chewed more holes in more muzzles, got fatter, and ended up paying for it with more conditioning gallops up and down the hills around the barn. We ended up growing exceptionally close through adversity, conflict, and mutual resolution. Some days, I won; some days, she won. I found conceding defeat to a pint-sized pony with a mohawk and an attitude problem was a good medication to my growing show-ego.

After that, for awhile, we were an ultimate team. We put the mileage down to prove it across New York and the North East. To this day, the majority of results you find if you Google me are show results from those years. They’re not too shabby, either. But after awhile, the rush of competition started to lose its thrill, and the 4 AM mornings and hours spent anxiously watching the trailer behind us from the cramped backseat of the farm’s truck was replaced by quiet moments at the barn— late night rides after work when my trainer and I were the only people left.

Though I was un-diagnosed at the time, I’ve struggled with hereditary depression and the side effects of self-harming obsessive-compulsive disorder since my early teens. Before Zoloft, the feeling I got while riding at 8 o’clock at night, thoroughly exhausted, when everything came together and I could feel my SuperPony softening on the bit and accepting it; when energy and movement flowed freely between us into perfect leg-yields, turns on the fore, turns on the hind, collected canters, and that one, perfect, perfect moment of canter-pirouette while making a turn on a jump course— that was what kept me sane. If my hands were on the reins, I couldn’t be pulling my hair out of my head in chunks (which I did). If I was so completely focused on putting 4 strides between two jumps instead of 5 that I forgot to breathe, I sure as hell couldn’t let the intense, extreme and overwhelming fears of social awkwardness, adrift-ness, and emptiness that usually bombarded me register. To this day, I have no doubt that my horse gave better results than any therapist could have, had my mother acknowledged at the time my issues. Instead, someone with 4 legs who stands 14.1 hands (without shoes!) did, and filled the parts of me that I hated with something else in those moments— elation, which I did not, at the time, think was possible.

And in the years since— while in college and too busy trying to get the grades that the institution and my parents expected; while abroad and a complete fish out of water in the land of Marinara; and now, post-grad, presently medicated, and totally at a loss about where to go with my life— nothing’s changed about that feeling, and the power that is has to move me. Even if I can’t make the trip to the barn for a month, or even two or three, what keeps me going on the worse days, or every time I anxiously wait for a plane to take off while being 110% certain that this one will be the one whose engine fails and goes down, or when I am convinced that my landlord hates me, my bank would love to kill me, my friends have given up on me, and it’s just not enough to be my parent’s daughter or my incredible partner’s girlfriend, knowing that my horse— another living being who can read my emotions and my intentions so well when we work that I whole-heartedly believe that those amazing creatures are in fact sensitive enough to feel your gaze shift and respond to that— has for years and continues to accept and heal me within half an hour of quiet, silent, affectionate understanding…that is what gets me through. 

Some people don’t, and can’t, understand this. They have never been and will never be an equestrian. Other riders may not have found their perfect equine partner yet. Some have. They’ll tell you their horse is like their child. They’ll tell you it’s like falling in love at first sight. Like finding a soul mate on four legs. Like being one— a centaur in the dressage ring. They’ll tell you that their horse’s courage gave them the courage to believe that they could make it through and Intermediate cross country course alive. They’ll say that their horse saved them, time and time again, when friends and family couldn’t. At various times in my life, I could tell you that all of the above statements have been true for me at one time or another, but the biggest and best thing that my horse has given me was a feeling of complete and utter perfect, clear normality, even when my own mind wouldn’t give me that freedom. She did, and that’s why I treasure her so much— she showed me the emotionally-rich and happy person that I had the ability to be and have become. And for that, I think I owe it to her to stick with her through the hard times, since she was there through mine.

A horse is not just an animal; to its rider, it is an extension of themselves, their heart, their body. When I have one of those truly great rides— those once-a-year rides when someone passing stops to watch because it just looks so. damn. EASY…I have no idea where I end and where she begins. Can you tell me, with a bond like that, where do you decide to sever it?

XOXO

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July 19, 2011


Lesson of the Night:

"Remine me not to drink from stranger s pipes."

XOXO

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Life Life Lessons Ugh Bad Life Decisions Bad Habits Glassware

July 21, 2011


I don’t care what you think about me. I don’t think about you at all.

- Coco Chanel (via jeanetteangel)

XOXO

(Source: bergdorfprincess)

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August 2, 2011


'I think that one of these days,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you’ve got to start going there.'

- The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. SALINGER. (via aacissej)

The beginning is always the hardest part of the journey.

XOXO

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August 7, 2011


August 17, 2011


Money:

If you don’t make it your damn self, it’s not yours.

Earning it isn’t just at your job; it’s by being able to be responsible when you’re given it.

There is no such thing in life as a Free Ride, and, if you think you find one, chances are, free is a relative term in regards to finding out what you have to lose for it.

This morning, I was at my favorite coffee spot when I noticed that someone had left a stray $5 bill on the counter. It wasn’t near the tip jar. It wasn’t near another person. No one but me had seen it. It obviously had been left behind. I eyed it like an AA member eyes a tall, stiff G&T, and almost reached for it. I had 37 cents, a Euro, a pound, and a few Canadian 2-cent coins in my wallet. My bank account was in the red. I had just pawned off three expensive pieces of jewelry that had been gifts in order to pay for this month’s rent. I had NOTHING left to sell, and a quarter-tank of gas. It was REALLY tempting to pick up that stray $5. But I didn’t.

I thought about the fact that in the not-so-far-away past, my spending habits and lack thereof money management had cost me a few things I dearly loved: I lost my horse. I couldn’t stay in Burlington. In one fell, fiscal swoop, I cleared out both the thing I loved most in the world, as well as a living situation that separated me from the slovenly dependent and actually made me happy. I hadn’t earned those $5 at ALL. If anything, I’d proved that given the choice between giving me, a college-educated, emotionally independent, proud contributing member of society the money, or a homeless, drunken lout the $5, you would probably be safe in assuming the drunkard would make a wiser decision in spending it than I would. And that’s when it hit me, and I pulled my hand back and away, and left it on the wooden counter for another, more morally and financially correct person to find:

If I have SO MUCH going for me in life, I should not have to be bailed out. Simple. I’ve proven to myself that when shit gets tight, I can find a way to make my talents and ingenuity pay for me. I REALLY don’t need to be asking other members of society for money that THEY earned, that THEY will spend in a much wiser manner than myself, that THEY get to decide what it goes towards and what it should not. I realized that if I took that $5, I would effectively be saying to myself, “You don’t have your shit together enough to not even be responsible for making $5 for yourself, so you have to take it from someone else.” And you know what? That was $5. I had an existential crisis over FIVE DOLLARS. Can you imagine what it’s like for people who go through their life always asking other people to pay for them to exist? I’m sorry, but the world is NOT a stage, and we should not be giving money to people in exchange for them nearly continuing to keep breathing. Our population is not that lacking. Instead, if you really need a benefactor to bail you out, find someone who’s willing to meet you fiscally half-way, given the fact that you first exhibit the drive to work for it by fronting the first half of expenses. That way, people will know you’re actually the sort of person who isn’t just going to shit money away on designer trash and frivolous “necessities.” Because in the end, if you do, you’re not even going to be able to look at yourself without being disgusted by your own blatant disregard for the fact that you obviously don’t care about the things you supposedly love and cherish enough that you should be responsible for taking care of.

Never reach for a dollar easily without thinking about what it’ll cost YOU. It’s not just a hundred pennies— it’s your own self-worth. You shouldn’t have to get it from other people.

XOXO

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Ack Rite Life Lessons Mo' Money Mo' Problems Truth Growing Up

August 18, 2011


Always remember: Always ask yourself, when someone enters your life and asks to be a major role, what to they give you? What do they take from you? Do they enrich your life, make you a better person, make you happy? Or are they just in it for themselves, and what YOU can provide THEM? The only people who you should ever willingly let enter your life are the ones who are looking to contribute toward your betterment, not to plunder and pillage from it, instead. Givers are givers. Takers are takers.

XOXO

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August 20, 2011


August 21, 2011


There Are Two Kinds Of People In This World: Those Who Ask For Things, And Those Who Say “No” To Things.

"No" is a word I’ve never had trouble saying, so it frustrates me beyond belief when other people have difficulties with it. I’ve said "no" to bosses, to professors, to friends, to lovers, to ex-lovers, to lover’s ex-lovers, to my parents, to Italian border officials, to sales associates, to landlords, to bank personnel, to clients, to my primary care physicians. I’ve turned down "surprise" shifts, extra work, booty calls, requests to relinquish lots of things (personal freedom, Murano glass artwork, the last Lindt chocolate), unnecessary shots, and even an all-expenses-paid roadtrip out to California and back. Some of them were obviously easier to deny than others (shots, anyone? Anyone actually ACCEPT unneeded immunizations and needle jabs?), but the point being, I somehow managed to turn them all down. 

I get that we all like to make other people happy— it’s a natural human desire— but at some point, you’ve got to start putting your own wishes and desires before other people’s, otherwise, all you’ll ever be is an unhappy, overworked, underpaid doormat. If you don’t believe me, ask my mother, one of my old roommates, and some of my co-workers and classmates about this. Your personal happiness, time, and well-being are the most important things you’ve gotso DON’T just keep giving it away. I know this may sound very self-centered and only-child-ish of me, but I swear to god, this is true. If YOU are not happy, not content, and not doing what you want, how in hell do you expect to be responsible for taking care of making OTHER people happy and content? As an ex-nanny, I can tell you— unhappiness is like fear; other people can sniff it out. And if someone knows that you’re not happy— if they’re a true friend of yours, and they really care about you, mind, body, and soul— it will be impossible for them to be happy, no matter what you say you can do for them.

Say it with me, now: “I’m sorry, I can’t; but I trust that you’ll be able to figure something else out.”

It’s that easy— polite, firm, genuine, and true to yourself.

XOXO

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August 29, 2011


Fake only disappoints when found out.

XOXO

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