I have been the worst at maintaining this little blog.

But I promise I’ll be back, and soon!

It’s because I see posts like this:

“there’s a medium sized group of bros in the hallway of my dorm and they’re doing homework and listening to a techno remix of “tiny dancer” by elton john”

And then I’m reminded of much I freaking miss my school. 

Inevitably my next thought is where the hell can I get my hands on that techno remix?

There’s not much that I can say that hasn’t already been lamented all over the world. In fact, there’s probably nothing I can say that hasn’t already been tweeted, posted, or shared via our smart phones, computers, and tablets.

A pioneer, a brilliant mind, and an incredible human has left this earth today. The world will forever be touched by his existence and the strides he made in technology. And I’m proud to say I witnessed his finest achievements, pieces of history that revolutionized the way products “think.” 

Apple has always been foremost in the field of innovation and efficiency without sacrificing the sleek style that appeals to a wide range of consumers. Their user-friendly products empower even the most computer-illiterate and give them a confidence they may never have thought they’d have. We can credit Steve Jobs for those achievements. 

So I thank you, Steve, for the lasting impression you left when you died. You will never, ever be forgotten. And for years to come, your name will always be mentioned when they talk about “the greats,” the people who changed the world for the better.

We won’t be the same without you, but we thank you for giving us the tools we need to continue improving. You gave us the blueprints. Now it’s up to us to build the future.

Rest in Peace, Steve. And thanks again.

I’ve seen so many articles, images, programs, etc. on this day, and I just wanted to take some time to express some of my own thoughts. I doubt I will ever be able to accurately convey them all, but I’ll at least try.

Ten years ago, on this day, I sat in my eighth grade math class. Our school had an electrical fire the year before, so we were still in mobile classrooms while they rebuilt our roof. I remember half of my class returning to our room (we were split up for math according to our proficiency) buzzing with nervous energy. 

The boy who sat next to me rushed to my desk to tell me that a plane had the World Trade Center.

At that point we didn’t know anything else, so we were all worried. As more information leaked, we were downright terrified. How could someone do this?

The school shut down almost immediately—parents came to pick their children up, and I remember leaving in a panic because I had to walk home and couldn’t get in touch with my mother. As a thirteen year-old, my mom was all I had—she still is—and the idea that she was unreachable when I needed to hear her voice was absolutely horrible. She worked in Manhattan, across from Grand Central, and the fear that they’d strike there too was overpowering. 

I sat at home with my mom and my great-aunt watching CNN in total shock. The devastation was unfathomable. I felt a weight off my shoulders when my mom walked in hours later. She was safe, thank God. But there were a lot of people who weren’t.

We didn’t go to school for another two or three days after that. New York City was an absolute mess. No one felt safe, secure, happy…this was our home, and so many lives were taken in it. It was just horrible.

I remember the days after the attacks, watching the news programs that featured family members clutching photos of their loved ones. As they tearfully described the missing, I cried along with them. The images of those families begging for their loved ones still haunts me to this day. If I close my eyes, I can see it vividly. 

That Sunday, Mass was packed to the brim. There was barely standing room. It was the first time that we sang as few hymns as possible; instead, we paid homage to our country and those who’d lost their lives. We had candles, and the processional hymn was “God Bless America”. There wasn’t a dry eye in my Church.

My life and the lives of many others were irreversibly changed on September 11, 2001. Though I had been raised to treat police and firemen like heroes, they were something else entirely from day onward. Being in a room with one of them filled me with this overwhelming gratitude that left me powerless to speak. I couldn’t believe that these men and women willingly threw themselves into horrible danger to save others. These people weren’t just heroes. They were more than that.

And it wasn’t just the servicemen and women. Think about the clergymen who went into those buildings and performed last rites. Those men of the cloth that died so others could be at peace before their souls left this Earth. Think about the regular people who did their best to rescue others and get them to safety.

It’s in times of crisis where we see the real strength of character, where civilians become heroes and strangers become brothers.

It’s important to remember that New York wasn’t the only place affected. Both Washington, D.C and Pennsylvania had casualties. The people on United Flight 93 who fought against the hijackers and ultimately saved hundreds more lives in their final act of bravery.

Most importantly, we must remember that September 11 was an attack on America. It was an attack on all fifty states. If one state is affected, we all are. That’s why we are united. We are one country, and we need to support our fellow states in times of need. I remember the outpouring of support, love, and regards we received from people in other states. Our school’s convent in Texas sent us letters with their most sincere prayers that we would recover from this tragedy with all the strength that New Yorkers were famous for. 

On this day, and every other day, try to remember all of those people who’ve lost their lives. Pray for their families that have been torn apart, devastated in the most awful kind of way. Don’t ever forget about the people who did everything in their power to save others in danger. We must always honor their memories. And I’m not just talking about those people killed in September 11. Pray for all the people, all over the world, who have lost their lives to violence and hatred.

Remember that we are all connected not only as Americans, but as humans. And let’s hope with everything that we have that no tragedy like this ever happens again.

Well hello, everyone! I’m back like a bad case of herpes. You’ll just never get rid of me!

Today I experienced the wonder of the airbrush tan. And I’d like to share that experience with you all.

Now, my skin takes to the sun the way a kitten takes to a scratch under the chin. I get very dark in the summertime, but I have to be working at it. But having a job puts a damper on my dreams of being Miss Hawaiian Tropics. So sometimes I have to cheat a little.

I’m sorry I’m not sorry.

I’ve gotten spray tans before—you know, the ones where you stand in a box and mimic positions that are usually found in crime scene drawings? There’s usually such an intense fear that I’m going to inhale the spray and die on the spot. And I’ve seen “The One With Ross’s Tan” so I know how terribly they can go wrong. If you’re not careful, you can go from just wanting a healthy glow to being Oprah’s long lost child. Or the unthinkable: an oompa loompa.

And no one wants to look like they could be juiced and served for breakfast tomorrow.

Since it is the eve of my birthday celebrations, I figured it’d be prudent to try out of these airbrush tans out. You know, because before every big occasion you should alter yourself just for shits and giggles. But this was different, folks. This was a new experience entirely. 

Someone sprayed that shit on me like I was a car getting a new coat of paint. And since you don’t tan with clothes on, you’re almost as naked as the day you were born. I expressed concerns about being completely au natural, so she assured me there was a more modest option.

“Don’t worry. We have paper thongs you can wear.”

I stood in nothing but a paper thong and wished to all hell that I’d skipped the bagels this week. Did I really need one per day? Could I suck in my gut and magically have a flat stomach?

“Do you want me to hide your cellulite?”

I looked down at the girl airbrushing the backs of my thighs in sheer mortification. Was I supposed to? I didn’t even realize you could do that.

“Is that even possible?” I asked.

“Yep! We can also hide some that tummy flab, too.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Did you know the way to rid your body of that pesky muffin top was to disguise it with chemicals that darken your skin?

When the whole ordeal ended about three minutes later, they made me stand in front of a fan while I kept my arms up. She suggested I read a magazine to pass the time, because normal people usually read magazines upright and at an arm’s length away from my body. And here’s where it gets funny. 

She also told me I couldn’t wear a bra for the rest of the night.

Well, if you’re familiar with my anatomy, then you’re well aware that Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum need to be kept in their cages at all times of the day. But now I was told I had to travel from Bleecker Street all the way to the Bronx. On the 6 train.

I couldn’t help but sing “Free ballin” to the tune of “Free fallin” to myself while I sat in the subway car, which may or may not have been the portal to Antarctica. I faced several problems on that ride home, and each problem presented a new issue I had to tackle whenever I thought I’d figured it all out.

First and foremost, I had to keep my baggy shirt as far away from my chest as possible. The idea of crazy protruding headlights was unappealing to me, so I tried to gather the material around my chest so there would be enough room to camouflage any sudden change in temperature. I also thought if I kept my arms crossed, things would be less noticeable. I felt my joints sweating, which made me panic because I was petrified of shedding my tan prematurely. But the stress of focusing on not sweating was causing me to sweat even more. It was too much pressure, and a vicious, sweaty cycle I couldn’t break.

By the time I’d left the subway, I could feel a trail of sweat down my back. And I had this intense fear that I’d take off my shirt and find white stripes because I’d perspired my false tan off. I’m not allowed to shower for 8-12 hours after, so the smell of the tan (which isn’t as offensive as it could be) mixed with sweat and the dried scent of cat food (because I can never not spill that crap on my hands when I’m opening the can) have all amalgamated on my skin and I fear I will never smell normal again.

I’m still waiting for the color to come in, but I’ll be sure to let you know when it does.

And if you see me tomorrow and I only sing to you in riddles, then you’ll know this has been an experiment gone wrong.

Hello all! I’m sorry about the delay in posts. It’s been a while, I know, but I’m so glad to be back and writing this. I missed it! This is like the little blog that could. And without further ado, here’s my return to self-deprecating humor.

Most of this morning was a blur to me. And no, it wasn’t because I was still drunk or hungover from the night before. I’m not even sure I was entirely awake when I got ready, but I somehow managed to slip on a decent-looking dress and brush my teeth. (That qualifies me for wizard-status, folks.) It was a huge deal that both of those activities happened at the same time. I should point out that my hair was borderline homeless-looking, but I tried to play it off as windswept and intriguing.

I kept my giant aviators on to mask the dark circles and eyes sorely lacking makeup. My magic tools were lovingly tucked away in my giant bag, and I knew I would soon need to do something about my face before it frightened small children. All I had to do was stay unnoticed till i got to work.

That went well until about 86th street, when this glamazon decides she wants to grace my personal space with her presence. Her beautiful blonde hair hung long and straight, not a flyaway in sight. Her face looked like she needed not one stitch of makeup. Her clothes were perfectly clean and pressed; despite the fact that she wore a linen skirt she had no wrinkles. She wore high-heeled slingback pumps to work, not in a tiny shopping bag that also holds a can of diet coke and a water bottle so you don’t have to spend all your money at Au Bon Pain at lunchtime. No, she wore her pumps. I looked down at my own feet, dirty from my flip-flips and the numerous shoes that walked over me. Oliver Twist would have been ashamed.

All I wanted to do was punch her hard in the nose and/or eye so that she would sob for a corrective solution and I could whip out four different shades of concealers and smugly come to her aid.

Did I mention the fact that her legs were thinner than my arms?

Now I’m not dumb. I know I’m not ready for the runway. I’m not slight of anything, except for maybe muscle mass. But you know, it’s not like I’m Medusa’s long lost twin—actually, allow me to clarify: I’m not like Medusa’s long lost twin when I’m wearing makeup. I’ve been known to garner the attention from a few toothless latino men on my way to work. And an occasional homeless man who thinks he’d get lucky. That might be because I always give my quarters to the ones with the brightest colored shirts. 

But you know, it’s hard to maintain your confidence when you’re standing next to Barbie, especially if you’re not oozing it to begin with. It’s difficult to cling to that shred of dignity when you feel like you’re in the presence of greatness. Despite the enormous talent I possessed when I performed two tasks at once this morning, I am not a wizard, and therefore cannot be expected to feel like I’m rockin’ it at all times of the day. 

I took another look at the girl next to me. Despite her fantastic outfit, she was rail thin and almost trembling as she stood on the train. She couldn’t support her weight when it stopped to a halt, and she could barely hold on while it was in motion. The clothes that I thought looked terrific were actually baggy. And she had no boobs. THE HORROR! How does she wear slutty, cleavage-enhancing shirts that you bought, wore once and threw out in shame at how little you left to the imagination if she doesn’t have anything to work with?!

To me, upon a second glance, it seemed almost like she was trying too hard. She was trying so hard to be this person, to look a certain way, and her discomfort showed all over her face. Meanwhile, I’m bopping along to my iPod, feet planted firmly on the ground. Trust me, not even that earthquake would have successfully knocked me down. Despite the fact that I was twice her size and actually looked like I escaped from the Homo Erectus exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, I still thought that I had the better end of the deal. 

Here’s the way I see it. When I get all jazzed up in my hot outfits and my sexy shoes, tame my hair and do my makeup, I rock it. I’m still awkward, but I’m awkward and owning it. Like a balding peacock that embraces the fact that he’s losing all his beautiful plumage. Oh well. Gotta love what you’ve got, right?

I make up for the fact that I’m not Cindy Crawford by thinking that I’m Cindy Crawford. And sometimes I think that’s the real secret to beauty. It’s confidence. And you can have it in your dirtiest, rattiest pair of sweats or your Valentino gown.

That’s why it’s the most important weapon in your arsenal. Wear it like your favorite push-up bra or ass-enhancing jeans.

Jesus Christmas, I hate the heat.

For the past few days, New York City’s temperature came in at 104 degrees, but the weathermen were astute enough to inform us that it would “feel like 115.”  No, Mike Woods and Sam Champions of the weather world, it doesn’t feel like 115 degrees. It feels like I’m burning from the inside out and I can almost smell my boiling organs. It feels so hot that I’m left with a hopelessness of never being cool again, of never enjoying a water that stays cold for more than a few seconds. Put that in your weather report, bozos.

I just wasn’t built to withstand these types of temperatures.  Something went wrong with my development and left me physically unable to cope when it’s time for the air conditioner. I trudge along the streets in an overheated haze and search aimlessly for a place to dry my sweat. What a horrible life to lead.

I’ve mentioned before that I have two modes of anger: passive-aggressive behavior or fiery ball of rage. But there’s also a third, which I affectionately refer to as “heat-induced misery”. I can no longer find the joy in life; simple things I loved to do all seem banal and not worth raising my body temperature. I forget what it feels like to laugh and how it feels when your clothes are an appropriate distance from your skin.  Everything seems less enjoyable, more annoying, and all around awful.  The heat sucks all of the fun out of my world and turns me into a sweaty, useless heap on the ceramic tile floor. I basically have to fight with my cats for the space, as lying on the kitchen floor is the only way to cool down their furry bodies. Suck it up, kitties. If lions and tigers and jaguars can do it, you can, too.

The heat doesn’t only alter my personality; it also helps me morph into my alter-ego, a wild woman from the Amazon. It takes my curly hair and amplifies the frizz, leaving it virtually incapable of styling.  It doesn’t matter that I fry my hair to utter straightness at the beginning of the night—just a few hours in the heat and my hair reverts to its natural scary ringlets. I end up sporting this gnarly afro that does not suit me one bit. Diana Ross, if you need another Supreme, give me a call.

Last but not least, the heat makes me sweat.  This is completely unavoidable—you can apply deodorant and anti-perspirant every hour and it still won’t stand a chance in the heat we’ve endured in the past week.  You may not smell (thank you, Degree) but you’ll still soak right through your shirt. It’s really sexy.  Your skin gets so slick that your limbs slide against each other (try crossing your legs after running outside, it’s actually kind of comical).

But the absolute worst, hands down, would have to be going to work.  All these poor men who sweat right through their work shirts make me so sad.  But I don’t feel too bad because it’s also not very fun to sport a tight work skirt and some sort of fancy blouse when it’s going to stick to your sweaty skin. And my makeup melts off by the time I walk the five blocks to the hospital. I don’t even know why I bother applying it in the first place.  I wonder every day how the security guards know that I’m an employee and not an escaped patient from our psych unit.  Maybe they just take pity on me.

That’s about it for now, they just turned off our air conditioning and I may melt into a puddle at any minute. Keep me in your prayers.

Stay cool, tumblahs.

Dear Ms. Rowling,

Today, a few lucky fans will get to witness the last chapter of your beautiful creation. Three young stars will say goodbye to the movie they grew up with, as will the rest of us. I started reading your first book, formerly known as Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, when my mother found a British review on the Internet. I was eleven years old, just like Harry. I’ve never looked back.

Your books, each one a masterpiece in its own right, created a world that every child wanted to visit. They desperately wished to escape to Hogwarts, or even Hogsmeade, for a day. Maybe even forever. Even adults, and my mom was no exception. We fought over who got to read them first.

You took three characters so relatable to growing youths all over the world. Personally, I was like Hermoine in more ways than one—from my bushy hair and bookish personality to my unfailing loyalty to those I cared about. I see Ron and Harry in my friends, and sometimes even in myself, and that’s what’s so great about your writing. It’s so painfully accurate about the human spirit that everyone can identify.

I turn twenty-three in a few months, and I’m just as in love with your stories as the day I first opened your book. In fact, I love them even more. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could apparate around the city, or that Accio (insert object here) wouldn’t retrieve my lost car keys. You’ve managed to inject magic and hope in the mundane lives of us muggles. And I’m so insanely grateful for that.

Thank you, Ms. Rowling, for spearheading my imagination and giving me a chance to transport myself to another world entirely. I don’t care if it’s not real, because it’s real in every one of your fans’ hearts. Thank you for introducing me to Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, and even Draco Malfoy. Thank for you Moaning Myrtle, Remus Lupin and Molly Weasley. Thank you for Hedwig, for Dobby, for Crookshanks and Errol. Thank you for Butter Beer and Quidditch Cups. Thank you for my dear Sirius Black, Minerva McGonagall, and for the wonderful Hagrid. Thank you for Buckbeak, thank you for the Room of Requirement, and thank you for all the Weasley children. Thank you for Severus Snape, for winguardium leviosa, for Albus Dumbledore and the Deathly Hallows. Thank you for Ron Weasley and for Hermione Granger.

And thank you, Ms. Rowling, thank you for Harry Potter.

Sincerely,

Jade K.

I’ve been pretty fortunate to have done a lot of things in my lifetime, but there are still a ton of things I haven’t seen or experienced.  Some are pretty high aspirations (see number 3), and others are a little more doable (see number 8). I thought that you’d all like to know what they are.  Are you ready? Please don’t hide your excitement.

1. Go on safari. When I was little, there were two things I had to do. One was swim with the dolphins (which I’ve done twice) and the other was go on safari in Africa. Actually, I wanted to drive to Africa and then go on a safari, but I’ve since learned that it’s impossible.
2. Build a no-kill animal shelter. When I marry rich—and believe me, I will—I’m going to buy a huge piece of land and start my own shelter. There will be cats, dogs, horses…any animal that would be put down simply because there wasn’t enough room at the inn.
3. Successfully pop a bag of popcorn. I have a Bachelor’s Degree, but for some God-forsaken reason I can’t pop a bag of popcorn. Either none of the kernels pop, or they become popcorn ashes. One burnt popcorn in the bag ruins the taste of the rest. So there is no happy medium for me. Why is this so difficult?
4. Lure a man with my wit, unhealthy obsession with television, and cat-lady tendencies. Guys…this can happen right? Right??
5. Learn to salsa. So I’ve accepted that I’ve got these hips. But could someone please explain what I’m supposed to do with them?
6. Record a catchy, platinum-selling pop album. Think Robin Sparkles meets Adele meets Katy Perry. But with Janice or Fran Fine’s pitch.
7. Have a tea party with the Disney Princesses in Cinderella’s Castle. This is not a joke. These things do happen. My eight year-old cousin went, and bragged about it for weeks. Bitch. (just kidding!) (not really!)
8. Watch karma completely shank the hell out of those people who have ever wronged me. What goes around comes around, and all I want is to be there for it. I may not be pointing and laughing, and I may even help you up when you hit rockbottom, but I’d like a chance to internally gloat.
9. Have a love affair that blows Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy out of the water. Self-explanatory.
10. Do something completely daring and unexpected. Like get a tattoo or come out of a meal completely stain-free.
11. Make people laugh on my own tv show. Or through my own book. Either way, I want to make you choke on your hamburger and shoot milk through your nose. I want to have very messy fans.
12. 86 my addiction to lists. Can’t you guys tell by now that it’s a sickness?

Don’t be shy.  I’d love to hear what all of my lovely tumblahs have on their own bucket lists! 

Hey folks, sorry it’s taking me so long to write these days. I just got back from a marvelous week in the Hamptons. It’s my most favorite thing to do in the summer. Relaxing sunsets, goofing off with cousins around bonfires, beaching it up, and hob-knobbing with Southampton’s snobbiest at the local bars and clubs. Everyone should go at least once.

Anyhoo, I received an anonymous message asking me what my perfect type of guy would be. I decided to make a post about it. Here comes another list, tumblahs!

Everything my ideal guy must have and why:

A sense of humor. I can’t stress this enough. There are some people who are naturally un-funny, and I wish them to have no part in my life. I love to laugh, and if you just sit there like a fish, I’m not going to enjoy your presence. Furthermore, don’t make me watch some obscure show that is only funny to those who wrote it. I’m not above slapstick humor. Im clever, but I’m not a robot! Note: there is a fine line between being funny and immature. Determine the line, and play around with it as much as you can. Another note: it takes very little to make me laugh. If I can laugh at a cat playing the keyboard or a little girl falling off the stage at her kindergarten show, I can laugh at anything. Please don’t judge me for this.

A good relationship with one or both of his parents. Mamasita is kick-ass, and I want my Mr. Right to respect his parental(s) and never take them for granted. I’m not saying he has to tuck his mother in at night or shave his dad’s ass, but I’d like to know that he didn’t chop their heads off or wouldn’t put them in a home the minute they forget where they put their keys.

Tolerance. For me, basically. I’m a pain in the ass. I’m loud and obnoxious. I need someone who will put up with all of my nonsense and not bat an eyelash. I really enjoy speaking in accents. If you happen to be good at one, by all means, join in the fun. Just try not to cringe when I whip out my Cockney voice and convince myself I sound exactly like Eliza Doolittle in the beginning of My Fair Lady. And if I make you watch it with me, please don’t complain. That also includes NCIS, Friends, Overboard, She’s the Man, Sabrina, Pride and Prejudice, Billy Madison, etc. Note: if you stumble upon my collection of cat videos, photos, and other meow-memorabilia, do not be alarmed. Just step away from the box/computer and pretend like nothing happened. I will do the same if I find your porn.

Patience. I’d like to say that I’m an even-keeled kind of gal, but that just isn’t the case. If you piss me off, it can go one of two ways: the first is the passive aggressive route, where I speak to you as little as possible and answer you in clipped tones. I will basically let you know I’m mad without actually saying anything to you. The second is the less subtle of the two, and it’s when I become a fiery ball of rage. You may think this is an exaggeration, but it isn’t. I have been called “Jadezilla” on more than one occasion; when I’m yelling I flail my arms (I’m expressive when I speak) and I have the tendency to be clumsier than usual, which results in damaged goods in my general vicinity. This inferno of fury will occur only in the most dire of circumstances, like forgetting my birthday, taping over something on my DVR, or taking my food without permission. JOEY DOESN’T SHARE FOOD! (Please don’t make me explain this reference. Google it if you have to.) Just remember that a heartfelt apology goes a long way to quell my temper. And just so you know, if you try to attribute my anger to my period, I will murder you.

A little somethin’ somethin’. You don’t have to look like David Beckham or even David Boreanz to get my attention (though it would be nice). Maybe you can dance really well. Or maybe you like to cook. Maybe you can go line-for-line with me when I bring up my favorite movie and/or tv show. Or maybe you can’t help but stop and play with the stray kitten on your way home. You just have to have something to grab my interest and make you worth getting to know. I’ve wasted too much time on guys who weren’t worth it. My Mr. Right will be interesting enough to invest my energy.

Man power. I need someone who can fix things around the house and tweak stuff under my car when it needs looked at. I don’t care if this is chauvinistic. I got stranded with a flat for two hours and AAA refused to help. And when help finally arrived, he assured me that I wouldn’t have had the strength to change the tire myself. I need to know that if I call my guy he could change it, and do it right. To be clear, I don’t want a Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor. I want a Bob Vila or an Al Boreland (strictly in the tool-competence field).

A firm understanding of the word “subtle”. I hate, hate, HATE public displays of affection. A quick kiss maybe, but you’ll never see me playing tonsil hockey with my beau outside. Another no-no? Showering me with text messages and wall posts professing your love. Gross. I don’t need you to tell me how you feel every five minutes. I don’t need to know what you ate for a midday snack. Just keep it subtle. An air of mystery is good.

Appreciation. Let’s face it. I’m not going to be gracing any Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition covers anytime soon. But my eyes change color and I have a beauty mark on my face. Sometimes my legs are stubbly, because I am not a wizard and lack the patience to shave everything in one shower session. But my toes will always be painted and my feet will be as groomed as possible. Despite my love of reading, I can’t name more than 20 of the 100 greatest books, but I’ll always remember your birthday and ask about the little things. Just appreciate what I have to offer, and we’ll be just fine.

Last but not least, a big heart. I laugh big, I cry big, I scream big, and I love big. It’s just who I am. I need someone who can love me for not only the things that make me great, but also the things that make me a bitch. I’m not the easiest person sometimes, but I guarantee I’m worth it.

That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?