Shiksa, Please.

And on the 7th day, G-d made brunch.

I Am Officially a Jewish Mother.

Othewise known as “I’ve Turned Into My Mother.”

I’ve spent the last thirty minutes sifting through a large plastic container of those little rounded glass rocks to collect a group of clear, light blue, blue, light green, green, turqouise, and a few accent rocks of amber for my new baby. He’s a quiet little guy, who amicably goes about his day without many worries (unlike me). His name is Antony, and he’s the best fucking goldfish the world has ever seen. With that responsibility comes great burden for me, which is why I am officially a Jewish mother.

His bris will be next Friday, you all are invited.

I went to the local Italian festival a few days ago, where after gorging on delicious sausage (no pun intended… and now pun intended), I meandered through the carnvial rides to happen upon one of those games that requires hand-eye coordination that I do not have (which is why I will NEVER become a surgeon). Their big deal was if you purchased 30 ping pong balls worth $5 to use for the game, you automatically received a goldfish. After making my friend fork over the fee, I happily accepted the card redeemable for my goldfish. (My friend ended up winning a fish himself so I didn’t feel as bad about taking the free fish for myself.) Seeing as it was St. Anthony’s Italian festival, I decided to name him Anthony. Promptly after leaving the festival that night, I called my aunt who is currently in town visiting and is also staying with me that we had to go to Petsmart, and that it was a very urgent matter. 

My aunt and I walk into Petsmart, and I start perusing the fish section. Did you know they have such a thing as “Water Conditioner” for your fish? Naturally I picked it up. I ended up staring at the food and interrogating the employee for about 10 minutes on the ins and outs of the fish food, and asking why some was more expensive than the others; I only wanted the best for my little Anthony, and he was going to get it. After settling on a water filter and the fish food that was NOT on sale, I happily headed home to move him into his new glass home. Originally I had wanted to put him in this glass coffee carafe, but after realzing he would be stuck moving only horizontally, I settled on a decent sized glass container with a slight flare on the lip of the glass, just for some detailed interest. 

For the rest of that evening, my aunt kept on referring to him as Antony, and since that  name is a little more interesting, I switched it.

What, it’s my perogative as a parent to have 100% control over my child.

That first night I had a nightmare about little Antony. I dreamt that he had jumped out of the container and dropped dead after I had accidentally poured black water into his tank when trying to replace water. I woke up the next morning and quickly checked to make sure he was still alive and moving inside his tank. Before I left for work that morning, I left my aunt a note saying “Had a nightmare about Antony dying. Am I cut out for this?” When she woke up, she wrote on my facebook wall - “Checked on A - “A”ll is well! Better you had the nightmare than me:) Is A “A”llowed @ Penn???” (We’re a very emotionally concerned family as well as concerned about me graduating from Penn without getting thrown out over a fish in the dorms.)

Since getting little Antony, I’ve been concerned his tank is not large enough for his needs as he continually hits his head against the side of the glass. I plan on getting him a bigger tank this coming week; he’ll probably be upsizing from a shoebox in midtown to a UES loft apartment. This means he’s getting a plant as well. I’m also concerned I’m overfeeding him. I can feel the hunger in his small eyes when he’s swimming around the tank and I feel guilty he has no means of his own to feed himself. I then put in an extra pinch of food and long for his fishy approval.

I’ve also been contemplating getting him a little pal because he looks so damn lonely all the time. In naming him Antony, the natural progression is to get a second goldfish and name her Cleopatra. After coming to that conclusion, I thought it would be a great idea to get a third fish, a beta, and put him in a different tank and name him Caesar.

It’s so much fun to be nerdy and single.

Meanwhile, my family is two steps away from taking bets as to how long he’s alive. (We’re compassionate yet realistic.) Most think he won’t last a week, but I’m hoping he sticks around for a year or two, or at least until I have a ring. 

Whichever happens first.

That is Antony, and it took me about 10 minutes to try and get a picture of him. I told him to hurry it up, that I had given him ample time to get ready to go, and he decided to not listen to me. 

Selective hearing runs in my family.

Instead, Antony decided to stay on the side of the tank where I couldn’t get a clear shot of him. His dismissive antics and slow pace in getting ready definitely makes him my son.

I’m letting the glass rocks soak overnight in water so that they can get cleaned, sort of…

Also, the color scheme of the glass rocks was influenced by his name, as I wanted Antony to go back to the Mediterranean. 

Gotta run, it’s past Antony’s bedtime.

Today is shegetz appreciation day.
boner-riffic:

David Beckham, shirtless & wet, for ELLE magazine

Today is shegetz appreciation day.

boner-riffic:

David Beckham, shirtless & wet, for ELLE magazine

(Source: bonerriffic)

M-A-R-Y-L-A-N-D!

For the last two days, I haven’t been able to think about anything else besides the fact that I would have graduated from the University of Maryland yesterday, but I didn’t. Instead for the past two years I decided to take gap years from school to persue “work” of sorts, and I will be transferring to the University of Pennsylvania this fall.

To say that I’m bummed would be accurate. I wish I had some witty quip to accompany that but instead I’m wallowing in a cappuccino and I’ve let my hair go au naturale for the first three hours of my day. Don’t worry, I’m about to go fix it, I’m not that far gone.

I’ve never regretted leaving UMD and I did so fully knowing I wouldn’t be graduating on time, but somehow in my mind I don’t think I realized what it entailed. 

While I’m excited about Penn and everything it has to offer, I’ve been looking over everyone’s facebook pictures from graduation and throwing profanities at my laptop, hoping one of them might magically make a diploma, cap, and gown appear on my bed and I can celebrate with the rest of my bitch friends.

To make matters worse, my sister is starting Penn State in the fall. I’m 100% positive she will graduate undergrad before I do. 

Silver lining to all of this: I’ll be spending all of my time at Penn in Wharton finding a husband.

Fun Fact: one summer for the talent show at JCC Camp of Greater Washington in Rockville, MD (“Montrose Road, take me homeeee”), I performed a lip sync solo to Britney’s immortal song (sorry I’m not sorry for my editorializing) “Oops! …I Did It Again" in front of a packed social hall. I wore my red plastic Old Navy raincoat and had all of the choreography down pat. 
I’m pretty sure I asked my mom to buy me that raincoat so I had a gender approrpiate costume that still kept the integrity of the music video without coming off as too “faggy.”
I was fucking fierce. 

…and this is how I know I’m gay.

Fun Fact: one summer for the talent show at JCC Camp of Greater Washington in Rockville, MD (“Montrose Road, take me homeeee”), I performed a lip sync solo to Britney’s immortal song (sorry I’m not sorry for my editorializing) “Oops! …I Did It Again" in front of a packed social hall. I wore my red plastic Old Navy raincoat and had all of the choreography down pat. 

I’m pretty sure I asked my mom to buy me that raincoat so I had a gender approrpiate costume that still kept the integrity of the music video without coming off as too “faggy.”

I was fucking fierce. 

…and this is how I know I’m gay.

(Source: cuntroversy, via sassyfaygala)

Hodler is one of my favorite artists. I first learned about him in a Modernism course I took at the University of Maryland a few years back and have been enamoured ever since. Serving Swiss realness!
deadpaint:

Ferdinand Hodler, Adoration

Hodler is one of my favorite artists. I first learned about him in a Modernism course I took at the University of Maryland a few years back and have been enamoured ever since. Serving Swiss realness!

deadpaint:

Ferdinand Hodler, Adoration

At Least My Tush is Firm.

I’m writing this post as a buffer between dinner and doing crunches. I am in desperate need of some visible abdominal muscles, even though I have strong abs already. It’s that fucking 1/2” of “skin” on top of them that’s driving me absolutely insane. I attribute this matter to developing a strong relationship with latkes and bagels at the age of 3. 

Fucking latkes and fucking bagels. A gay man’s worst enemies.

Unfortunately for me, whenever I eat it goes stops right at my stomach skipping my ass and thighs all together. There is no distribution. I have great legs from my toes up to my ass, which by the way is legendary - it’s a solid rock of pure kosher beef. What some straight-folk might not understand is that by and large, the gay community only cares about a nice torso; scrawny legs/arms can usually be overlooked if everything else seems up to par. I have been complimented on my “muscular” build before, but I know this is just a nice way of saying, “Do you even know what ‘skinny jeans’ are?”  My legs are larger than average but well defined and my arms are actually decent. Broad shoulders and a cute face have gotten me this far in life, but I am too hung up on my abs.

I think sometimes I overthink things because jewish men are notorious for corpulent bodies. Occasionally during Saturday morning services, I try to count the men who weigh below approximately 170 lbs, excluding all of the men under the height of 5’6”. Truth be told, it’s a dismal future for most jewish men. 

Let me clarify this by stating I’m not fat nor do I have much fat on me (I’m worried some of you might think I’m a heifer here, potentially scaring away my future husband if he’s reading this) but I guess it’s that my abs are the one part of my body I have very little control over. Every time I go home, my sister pokes and prods me with the formidable, “So, where’s your six-pack?” - it kills me every time. My mom then yells at me from the room over, “WHEW, I don’t care about a six-pack but check out your hot body!!! And that TUSH! That’s MY son!” - this kills me too.

I just want some visible abs so that I can maybe have another bagel and a friend with benefits that will eventually turn into my husband after a long period of me putting up with his med school/law school finals and his residency/bar exam.

It’s now been long enough of a wait to start doing crunches.

L-fucking-chaim. 

Two of my favorite things: Bacon (so sue me) and lubrication. 30 Rock and hearts are second tier for me.

Two of my favorite things: Bacon (so sue me) and lubrication. 30 Rock and hearts are second tier for me.

(Source: 30rockasaurus, via thechelseaclare)

To All of “The Rachels” Out There

This actually has nothing to do with The Rachel.

I’d like to finally write a post in honor of my long-term boyfriend. He’s got great body, he’s always on my mind, and among other things, is a daily fucking nuisance.

Yes, I am talking about my hair.

I like to pretend that my love/hate relationship with my hair started off in some dramatic fashion like accidentally burning off the hair on the left side of my head or dumping a pitcher of Kool Aid on my head at the age of 2. Of course my relationship with my hair was not nearly as exciting.

There are a few pictures of me - I couldn’t have been older than one year old - where I’m on one of those plastic kids play slides in my seersucker overalls and I’m running a little black comb through my hair to get it “just so.” Homosexual since 1990. Suck it bitches. Clearly my destiny/purpose in life is to fuss over my hair, although from that picture it seems like I was at least on speaking terms with my hair at that point if not respected acquaintances. It was a great strawberry-blonde color back then and rested nicely upon my head much like a child model’s would (my family has always told me I should have/should be a model. I decided to eat instead).

By the age of three, my hair had darkened to roughly it’s current color (many people tell me I have dark blonde hair but it’s definitely brown with some slightly ginger undertones that only come out in certain lights) and this is where the trouble started. My mom would put me these in great fun outfits but would fuss over my hair like any overbearing jewish mother might over their eldest and only son. The second picture that I love from my childhood is from my cousin David’s Bar Mitzvah. I like to think I have “Ralph Lauren hair” i.e. a great wave and a nice yuppie auburnish color, and in this picture it is on full display. My mom, my sister, and I are all looking at the camera in a very “American Gothic,” little to no expression way. My mom is decked in her early nineties best, a turquoise shift dress with white puffy cap sleeves and large gold earrings. My sister was wearing some floral onesie (at the tender age of five months old), and then there’s me, at three and a half with my navy blue blazer with suspenders underneath, white button up, bright red bow tie, and my hair like I’m in a fucking advertisement for Ralph Lauren Polo Blue, pieced perfectly, a nice swoop from the front to the back, and hairsprayed until kingdom come. That shit was going to stay put. Considering I had/have the worst shpilkes of any person I’ve ever known, that was a good thing. I’m positive this is where my affinity for hairspray comes from.

Additionally, my mom had this thing for pushing the back of my hair up. She would always keep the top a little longer than the sides or the back, which is actually how I like to keep my hair now, but she had this really odd obsession with running her fingers up the back of my head to push all of my hair up and then would spray it. We would literally get into screaming matches over this. I HATED it, and to this day I get really uncomfortable whenever someone tries to touch my hair. Sip my cocktail, borrow my button up, but if you touch my hair I will legitimately have a panic attack and go into full-blown bitch mode. It’s not cute. If you were wondering, my hair was pushed up in the back for that Bar Mitzvah picture. It’s rough. Additionally the pictures from my actual Bar Mitzvah should be burned.

To be perfectly honest, I have really great hair. It’s thick, wavy, and not one bit curly or frizzy. It does do some weird things when it’s humid outside, but I am jewish. It tends to grow quickly, which doesn’t bother me much, but what does end up happening is instead of having a really nice wave in the front, occasionally I’ll wake up one morning and the front part of my hair will have gotten ridiculously heavy overnight and will push down too low over my forehead and I’ll be pissed for the rest of the day until I can do something about it. I’ve been cutting my own hair since October of 2011 and it still looks pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I do love my hair, but seeing as I haven’t learned to pick and choose my battles with it yet, I micromanage it every second of the day. Seriously, everything has turned into a mirror so I can check my hair. Plexiglass, metal lamp posts, and yes, my phone are all used on a regular basis to check my hair.

Whew. Talking about my hair has really taken a lot out of me. Definitely time to go wash it.

FYI I exclusively use Paul Mitchell hairspray. Nothing holds better. I HATE gel, putty, foam, etc; it’s all crap.