tutta curve

Day 3 of Birthday Week 2011

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 12:48:39 -0400

Day 3 of Birthday Week 2011

Day 2 of Birthday Week 2011 <3 Sephora

Tue, 09 Aug 2011 12:42:00 -0400

Day 2 of Birthday Week 2011

<3 Sephora

Watermelon-Mint Granita…so delish.

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 12:12:00 -0400

Watermelon-Mint Granita…so delish.

a new blog was born...

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 12:06:00 -0400

Do you ever have that moment of clarity where you literally want to slap your own forehead and say out loud “WTF was I doing?” I have these moments daily. Recently I had the burger of my life while dining with one of the best people I’ve been blessed to have met, since moving to Baltimore. As usual I was spewing out details of my latest rendezvous (read: man drama). In between rants and defense of my actions and escapades, I would blurt out and acknowledge the perfection of my burger. Each bite was better than the next….and then back to man drama. Meanwhile, my dear friend, very patient and sweetly, offered insight and non-judgmental understanding of my apparent promiscuity.

It wasn’t until I got home that evening and was reflecting back on the delicious burger and delightful time I had with my homegirl, that I have my forehead slapping moment. I’ve been spending so much time and energy talking to my friends about men, talking to men about men and talking to myself about men that I miss out on the deliciousness of everything else around me-even the burger of my life. Call it corny, but I had a turning point.

Don’t get me wrong-I want love. But I want the kind of love that gives me the same satisfaction that a good meal or a good conversation can provide. Something innocent. Passionate. Full of life. Vibrant. Something with substance. Something that stops in my tracks and acknowledge its perfection.

So. Where does this leave me? In the kitchen. Where my heart is. Where I should have been spending my time and efforts. Where I will create perfection in the most tangible and sensual matter-food. As they say in the old country “ the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

With a surprise hot pink lining!

Sun, 17 Jul 2011 20:38:10 -0400

With a surprise hot pink lining!

Pretty new Anne Klein luggage

Sun, 17 Jul 2011 20:37:32 -0400

Pretty new Anne Klein luggage

4.) Ice Sculptures & Show Tunes

Tue, 29 Mar 2011 22:04:00 -0400

Once upon a time, I thought I meant my prince charming…but he turned out to be just another frog…

So Mr.Pin-Me-Down turned out to be a pirate instead of the next WWE champion. So on to the next I moved. My roommates, again taking me under their wing, invited me out to dinner one night. I obliged as I had nothing better to do. Overdressed as usual, I sipped on my cosmopolitan and paid an incredible amount of attention to how much dirt was getting on my Coach hobo until a charming guy approached, picked said couture bag up off dirty bar floor and set it on its very own chair-problem solved. Bag salvaged. Hmm, who was this oh-so-courteous fellow? The rest of the night he had me laughing, he was completely charming and cute in a Ross [Friends] sort of way…and then I fell…head over heels…or at least I thought I had.

We started dating. Engaged after 6 months. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. Flowers, diamonds, purses, etc. I never had to pay for anything, he did laundry and he loved to cook. He also loved planning our wedding. Right down to overriding my decision on a simple invitation and going straight for one with a monogram attachment and adhesive bow. We spent 6 months of wedding planning arguing over an ice sculpture (He was yay, I was nay!). From here on out we will call him Sir Heyyyyayyy.

Fast forward 1 year…the sound of wedding bells was still ringing in the air and my new husband and I were stumbling around the new world we found ourselves dwelling. Marital bliss is still a mystery to me. From day one, we fought-its as if we both knew the mistake that had been made for the price of approximately 20,000 U.S. dollars. At around month 4 of marriage, Sir Heyyyyayyy seemed to be getting a little too comfortable. Case in point-One Sunday afternoon we decided to go exploring. Naturally I was taking a while to get dressed and had barricaded myself in the bathroom to try to tame my fro. I thought I heard yelling, so I quick cut the juice to the blow dryer and ran to the living room. Yelling is what I then heard in my own head. Sir Heyyyyayyy was in front of a full length mirror in the living room, performing an all out Show Tunes dance routine, complete with jazz hands to a Death Cab for Cutie song. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” He spun around, horrified and continued to tell me that he was trying to see if there was a wave in the mirror, because he really felt like it was distorting the reflection. Um. o.k. I repressed this memory from my mind until sitting down to write this and back to repression it will go. Sir Heyyyyayyy’s dance routine didn’t concern me at the time. The feeling of someone being THAT comfortable with me, was comforting in a way.

Fast forward to month 4 of marriage. I had taken on the responsibility of paying the bills [with Sir Heyyyyayyy’s checkbook]. After a few month’s of performing this task, it had become increasingly easier as passwords, checking account and routing numbers and mailing information was entered and successfully saved for ease of future transactions. Until one day, I tried paying the cable bill-no information was saved. Ugh. Dug through bills to find actual paper statement and then found actual checkbook-which with the invention of a debit card, I still feel is unnecessary. Entered all the information-paid. On to the car insurance. No information saved. WTF? I was suddenly hating this chore-I like logging in, entering amount to pay and clicking “submit.” End of story. Having to fill in all of those fields is a task I feel I’m a.) too pretty for and b.) too intelligent for. Note to self-get ugly personal assistant. This data entry tug of war continued for all household bills. Thoroughly annoyed, I headed out to work. My annoyance hadn’t subsided and as I settled into my work day, a co-worker inquired as to my extraordinarily pissy mood. I explained the data entry fiasco. She raised an eyebrow. “What?” I demanded. She went on to try to explain “history,” “cookies,” and “storage of data.” It was Japanese to me. She called her husband, an IT guru. He put it in layman’s terms for me-“If your informations not stored as usual-its because someone is deleting the history and cookies off your computer.” “I didn’t even know I had COOKIES!” I retorted, “Why would you want to do that!?” His reply “Someone who is trying to hide something.” I was baffled. It was only me and Sir Heyyyyayyy in our home. It was MY laptop. Sir Heyyyayyy didn’t hide anything from me…not even his dance routines. I ignored his commentary.

One week later. Cup of coffee in hand, I sit down to pay my credit card bill…should have grabbed wine instead-this was going to hurt. As I chuckle to myself about all the shopping I had been doing on said credit card, I log in. Click “pay bill.” And in bold letters across the top of the screen I read “PLEASE COMPLETE FIELDS WITH RED (*) TO COMPLETE TRANSACTION” My blood pressure soared. What? I did this last month-why is everything gone again. Remembering back to what my co-workers hubby told me, I went to the search bar clicked the arrow down to view past websites. Nothing. There it was-the reality. Sir Heyyyyayyy WAS hiding something. I storm out of the bedroom into the living room, where he was napping on the couch. Standing over him, I said “I want to know what/who/why you are deleting the history on the computer.” His expression sealed his fate. Deer in the headlights. “I..I..I was looking at history stuff and I didn’t want you to pick on me.” Baffling. I look at the TV-History Channel. “Seriously? Try again.” (Dumb ass obliges) “I..I..I was going to buy you a diamond necklace for Valentines Day and I didn’t want you see what it was.” “Seriously??? You bought me a diamond necklace for our wedding!-Try again!” (At this point-he should have stopped-but no) “I was worried about SPAM and viruses!” “O.k. Stop. I don’t know what you’re doing. But stop doing it.” And I walked away. And I stopped paying the bills-his lying ass could sit there and enter account numbers every month for hours.

Month 5 of marriage. The data entry fiasco was a mere memory and I had confidence that whatever Sir Heyyyyayyy had been doing, he had stopped-I’d have been scared of me that day, so I knew I must have left an impression. At this point, Sir Heyyyyayyy and I were on opposite work schedules, I worked the 9-5 normal day and he had taken on the evening shift to cover someones vacation. One particular evening, I was exhausted and not feeling the greatest. I went to bed a little early and he went to the living room to do some work on the laptop before he headed to the office. (I have this bad habit of getting all ready for bed, getting good and cozy and then realizing I have to pee or I’m completely parched or I didn’t lock the door.) On this particular evening, my parched mouth woke me from the early stages of a good nights sleep. I stumbled out of bed and walked out of the bedroom. I glance in the living room where Sir Heyyyyayyy was sitting. BAM-he slams the laptop closed. I’m awake. “What are you doing??” he yelled. “Um getting water-better question, what the FUCK are you doing?” I approach him-clearly he was hiding something on that laptop-I go to grab it and he pulls it away-“I was looking at porn.” “Let me see it then” I said. “No, its embarrassing.” Tired, still parched and thoroughly annoyed, I demand “Why is it embarrassing?” “Because it was a black girl giving a blow job.” I could barely reply, ”Why would you hide that from me?” ”Because, I thought you’d be offended.” I shook my head. Got my water and went to bed-locking the door behind me. Since when would I be offended by some chocolate porn star? If it meant I didn’t have to do said deed-view away!

Month 6 of marriage-finally finished the thank you cards. Ugh. I will never bring a gift to a wedding just for the purpose of not making the bride write me a card that reads something generic like: “Dear Mr & Mrs Heyyyyayyy, Thank you so much for attending the wedding. It was a pleasure to see you and have you be part of our special day. You’re gift was so thoughtful. Keep in touch. Sincerely, “Thoroughly Exhausted Newly Wed with Carpal Tunnel”-unnecessary. To celebrate the completion of the sentiment writing-Sir Heyyyyayyy and I went out to dinner.

Arriving home, with a good wine buzz and less stress, I settled down in the office to do a little “facebooking” while my hubby enjoyed some late night TV. Oh perfect, its already open to facebook. I look to the left and see the history panel, I see “facebook.com/b..” I think to myself-oh my gosh, I have so many bumper stickers!!!! Couldn’t wait to start looking at them. I click on the first link-hmm thats not a bumper sticker. Click the next one. And the next one. It suddenly dawns on me, that “facebook.com/b…” was short for my Mr. Heyyyyayyy’s facebook page. I start paying a little more attention to the over 400 facebook history pages. People searches. Hmm, must be looking for college friends. Hmm…box checked for 17-24 year olds. Hmm…box checked for males. Holy Fuck. Box checked for “Men Interested In Men.” Like a magic jig saw puzzle the pieces flew together. I sat there dumbfounded looking at page after page (over 400 to be vaguely exact) of searches, profiles, information of men that Sir Heyyyyayyy was seeking out and contacting. Mystery solved.

On one hand-he deserves props for NOT deleting the history anymore. Props to me, for realizing he was hiding something. Himself. In the closet. And so I dragged him-kicking and screaming at first but eventually he broke out into a show tunes routine with a tight white t-shirt and super gelled hair and jazz handed his way 100% out of the closet. Welcome to your real life. Your real identity. Enjoy it. Divorce please.

So Ladies, never trust a man that is more interested in the ice sculpture than the open bar; never trust a man that does show tunes routines and never trust a man that gives you three answers to one question in under 5 seconds. He’s lying to you. Side Note-Sir Heyyyyayyy’s current FB status read “My heart only runs on supreme.” Supreme penis. ON TO THE NEXT!

Siry Heyyyyayyy is a Ruby Eyed Tree frog. “Most of these frogs are homosexual as they do not realize that they are meant to mate with female frogs.”

3.) Wrestling Pirates..

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 21:57:00 -0400

My college career was spotty to say the least. I started out a private christian college. Fail. Then went onto a community college which showed me exactly what I didn’t want to be-a community college graduate. So 3rd times the charm-I moved onto a university that offered me amazing opportunities. Academically and well…socially.

I lucked out with an amazing housing placement in a condo style dormitory; two female roommates, one male and myself. Meeting people was a little bit of a challenge for me as I wasn’t used to the “university” lifestyle and all of my classmates were now juniors and had well established drinking circles. My roommates took me under their wing-graciously.

On one particular evening they invited me a party-“a small get together.” I asked if I needed to wear anything special and they assured me my “Party Favor” A&F tee and jeans was perfect. So we set out for close knit cocktails.

Small party my fat ass! This was a full on rave-people were pushing and grabbing, not my cup of tea. I can be a real biotch when I’m in a group of people that are acting like imbeciles. And real biotch I was. I threatened about 7 girls with their life and one guy. The girls ran off-dumb bimbos. As for the guy…he wasn’t so intimidated…As I stood sipping my drink and focusing on getting insanely drunk so I wouldn’t realize the obnoxiousness surrounding me, I was bumped-for what I was about to ensure was the last fucking time. I turn around to verbally bitch slap the asshole who spilled my Tangueray and as I’m explaining exactly how I’m going to dismember them I see the recipient of my verbiage…holy. shit. Tall. Dark (not chocolate) Handsome. He apologizes, looks me in the eyes and says…”so am I gonna get to take you home?” Snap back to reality. FUCK YOU DUDE! He smiles, points to my chest as I swat him away and he says “Party. Favor.” FML. Wardrobe-fail. I try to regain composure and zip up my fitted hoodie to hide the “party favors.” He was trouble-this I knew. He was a wrestler-jackpot. He will be called “Mr. Pin-Me-Down.”

Unfortunately for me, the excessive alcohol intake [to tolerate the drunken bumping] was giving me liquid courage. As we prepare to depart from the obnoxious soiree, my roommate stops me, bends her index finger in the shape of a lower case ‘r’ and places it next to her eye…okay psycho-lay off the tequila. She persisted to exhibit her own sign language and refused words-I didn’t have time for these charades. Peace out bitches.

Back at the apartment, Mr. Pin-Me-Down was hungry-so I whipped up some pasta; being a nutrition major, I new the importance of carb loading for optimal athletic performance. Once fed, Mr. Pin-Me-Down needed a smoke, he went outside and I went to update my Facebook status : “Pin Me Down…ding ding ding-you win.” Meanwhile my roommate returned, just as she was restarting her own personal game of charades with the ‘r’ gesture, Mr. Pin-Me-Down walked back in, exasperated, she said something under her breath about needing to go clean her goggles for me. Note to self-call AA for roommate in the a.m. Home girl needs help.

Fast forward to the morning-Mr. Pin-Me-Down had an early practice and I needed to get some sleep. I let him out and helped myself to a bottle of water. As I shuffled back to my room, my roommate emerged, “MERIDITH!” “Shhh biotch-hung over” I hushed. I turned to go back to my room as she said I needed to go to the eye doctor and have the beer goggles removed. “HUH?” I spun around. “That guy was TOTALLY HOT!” She laughed, “yeah, with his eyes closed,” she made the ‘r’ gesture next to her face. “OK-WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THE FINGER?” Unable to breath between hysterical laughter, she managed to explain that Mr. Pin-Me-Down had a lazy eye, a very lazy eye that only swung to the far right…”he’s like a pirate…”rrrrrrrrrrrgh matey.” FML. How had I missed this? I spent the rest of the afternoon prep-ing a pro’s and con’s list…how important were eyes anyways?

Fast forward to the following Monday-I’m walking past the library as I spot him standing having a smoke-he waves me over. I excuse myself from a group of girlfriends and approach. He lands a hot kiss on me and compliments my outfit. Trying to divert my attention from his creepy eye, I bask in the fact that he took notice of the little details…wow he’s so wonder-“SHE’S HOT!”-ful….wait what? “She’s hot-your friend, the blonde one, she’s hot.” Jaw dropped. Seriously dude? Unphased by his blunder he proceeded to invite himself over. Before I knew what had happened he had successfully insulted me, complimented my friend and then reestablished the fact that he thought he was such hot shit that none of that would matter.

As we walk into my apartment that afternoon, my roommate was making dinner in the kitchen, she looked horrified when she saw Mr. Pin-Me-Down follow me into the house. She made the ‘r’ gesture with her finger and started giggling. I looked at Mr. Pin-Me-Down who was staring directly at me and smiling. “Oh, don’t mind her, she’s coming off a bad crack habit,” I assured him. He spun his head far to the left and said “huh? what are you talking about, I was watching TV.” Who am I kidding. Eyes are important. Game. Over.

Mr. Pin-Me-Down is a Red-Eyed Tree Frog. These slimy amphibians flash their brightly colored body parts when startled. It sleeps by day with its eyes closed and body markings covered, stuck to leaf-bottoms.

Lesson learned….the thing is…this frog was one of the talented few. His wrestling moves were well received overall. Unfortunately, the ‘r’ was too much for me…I liked the wrestler…not so much the pirate…

2.) Espresso or not to espresso?

Mon, 28 Mar 2011 14:14:15 -0400

I am Italian (among other things). But to the meatball side I gravitate. Back flash to the fall of 2004. McFickle and I had sizzled and burned and my youth was not about to go to waste. First day of classes had quickly approached and not having retrained my internal alarm clock, I was faced with a 7 hour day of classes, no make up and no coffee. FML-I’d like to the think I invented the acronym. I make my way through the crowds to the campus cafe, where all the artsy people hung out. Like a scene in a romantic comedy the crowd parted as I approached and before me stood the most gorgeous, definition of Italian stallion, barista, my eyes had ever stumbled upon. I did a quick assessment of the situation. No wedding ring, no clingy girl hanging out anxiously, great smile-white teeth, beautiful big brown eyes. Espresso? Yes I think I will. Make it a double.

Poor choice in retrospect.

Mr. Espresso Pants, as he will be called, was perfect in the beginning (they all are). He called, he checked in, he was great in the sack and he told me I was beautiful-daily if not hourly. Plus I got free coffee, anytime. We started doing overnnights-at my place only, because Mr. Espresso Pants could not afford a percalator of his own, so he brewed at his parents-with no indication of ever changing that filter. This didn’t bother me at the time because I had an amazing upper, loft style apartment in the heart of the city; my pot was posh. My first clue Mr. Espresso Pants was not worth adding cream and sugar too was on a lovely Sunday morning…

Let me set the stage for you-drunken Saturday night, clothes strewn everywhere, beer bottles and bongs (for tobacco use of course) outlined the perimeter of my home. Just as I lay, peaceful and cozy in the arms of my strong, fearless italian lover, I hear a banging on the door. Assuming its a roommate executing a walk of shame, I ignore said banging. Until the trill of a voice that one will never forget floats through the air…my mother. MY MOTHER!!! “Its mom…” she said, followed by “and your sister and niece!” in another oh-so-familiar voice. Utter terror rippled through my body-just writing this gives me the shakes. I jumped out of bed, looked anxiously around and realized the intensity of the disaster that was about to unfold. I shake Mr. Espresso Pants-no response. “HEY! MY MOM IS HERE!” That worked. Now the typical man, may jump up, put clothes on and go to the COUCH and try to make it look as though he’d just arrived and not defiled the youngest daughter of a woman he is about to meet. Not Mr. Espresso Pants. He jumped out of the bed, balls flying and yelled. He yelled, as if an intruder were about to kill him with a spork. I hushed his pitiful cries and told him to get dressed. I should have known that was NOT going to happen. He proceeded to grab a sheet (leopard print-it was in then-not a word), cacooned himself in the animal print cotton and then flung himself down on the ground next to the bed. Perfect. It looks like I’ve held a man captive in leopard print. Perfect. Meanwhile, the banging was getting more impatient. I go to answer it, making sure my bedroom door was shut securely and welcomed my very un-welcomed guests into my new posh apartment. Just as I’m feeling like I may have prevented a very bad situation, my mother announces to my sister that I’ve recently painted my bedroom and she just HAS to see how great it looks. WRONG! As she reaches for the door knob I lunge (literally lunge) toward the door and over exclaim how dirty it is and should not be viewed by visitors-its a real animal style mess in there I said. After several close calls due to my mothers persistence she retreated from her objective. Crisis. Averted. Whether they noticed the size 11 mens dress shoes next to the door is still a mystery.

Once I scooted them out the door like the Grinch putting Cindy Loo Who back to bed, I opened the bedroom door. My jaw dropped. You. Must. Be. Kidding. Mr. Espresso Pants was now kneeling on the floor next to the bed, peering over the side of the mattress like a mexican hiding from border patrol. Coast clear-go ahead and put your big boy pants on now.

Mr. Espresso Pants still hadn’t lost my interest at this point. Don’t ask me why, but this boy had a coffee clutch on me. I couldn’t shake him-he was so mysterious and hott. Why break it if its not broke, right? WRONG. Any guy that hides in leopard print sheets, deserves some breaking.

Fast forward a couple weeks. I was so excited to see Mr. Espresso Pants because I had been out of town until the night before and his sisters birthday was the night I returned, so I’d not seen him in several days. I stand in line, fumbling with my phone, anxious to make my order and get my side of smooch for free. Some blonde bimbo was standing in front of me, playing with her extensions-give it up honey-he doesn’t like blondes anyways. Or does he. Just as I’m assessing her horribly put together way-too-much-pink outfit, I hear her say “I’ll have a skinny vanilla latte, no whip…ohhh and I had an amazing time lastnight-you’re talented at more than just coffee.” giggle. giggle. giggle. What a terrible line I thought. Stop. WHAT?!?! She steps to the side so can I order-how polite. My eyes meet Mr. Espresso Pants. “I..I..I..”-I cut him off-“Double Espresso-HOT.” The tension was thick; co-workers had quickly assessed the situation and saw that they may be down a barista. Mr. Espresso Pants started to explain-no explaination necessary I say. With my dignity and espresso in hand, I turn on my heels and make sure to do my very best sexy walk in the opposite direction. But I stop. Turn my head back and yell “you should see him in leopard print-HOTT.”

Mr. Espresso Pants is a Leopard Frog This frog has spots like a leopard. This frog sits and waits for its meal to come along-then it leaps to grab its prey.

Lesson learned-never trust a man that hides in leopard print. This frog taught me two things…get new sheets and never trust a man who’s more fearful of a 49 year old woman than a commercial coffee grinder. I like my men like I like my coffee. Strong.

1.) Where to start...

Sun, 27 Mar 2011 21:28:00 -0400

Hmm where to start…I’m not so sure I know where the beginning is anymore-the beginning of the downfall of my love life…or perhaps the beginning of my ability to laugh at personal misfortune. But for now-we will call the beginning McFickle…I feel that this was the beginning of the ridiculousness I mentioned previously.

McFickle was earthy, charming, falsely intellectual and had an amazing ass and great arms. We met in a Drug & Alcohol Behaviors class in college. He was part bad boy and part straight A student-“totally hot.” We started seeing each other and things were great, fun, lighthearted no drama. Until…my brother and I were talking one day and he mentioned he was dating a new girl-Sabrina. I rebuttaled with my new found love interest. Long story short-we realized that in fact, McFickle was the ex-boyfriend to Sabrina. Naturally, I broke it off…wrong.

I kept seeing McFickle, I was smitten with him. He took me to concerts and introduced to me to new music and was the perfect gentlemen. NOT. This douche bag put me on the crazy train and I didn’t even know I was a ticket holder! One week he wanted to date just me…then next week we were “homies.” However, whenever I was with any other guy…he would show up at my house. At all hours of the night. Case in point-on one of our “off” weeks, he took his friend Justin to a concert that he had bought US tickets to, but then apparently had a revelation and felt the need to profess his love me for at 3am…and did so by banging on my door until I answered. Only to find his drunk ass, holding an UGLY band t-shirt and pushed his way into my house and headed for my bedroom before I could say “hello.” This guy was such a piece of work that upon seeing another guy in my bed, didn’t storm out and leave…instead he laid down on the couch and refused to leave. The first time this happened I should have realized his parasitic tendencies and bailed at the first exit. But no-I’m a sucker for punishment and endured this for over a year.

Until one night, when it all went down hill. McFickle and his roommates were having a party and I was bringing my friend Jamie, who I thought would get along well with one of McFickles roommates. Much to my surprise, McFickle made it clear upon my arrival that we were “off” that night. I made my rounds and realized it was best I departed early-I went to find Jamie…no where to be found. An hour later, I found McFickle and inquired as to Jamie’s whereabouts. The direct answer to that question was never given, rather he said “don’t worry babe-I’ll bring her back to your place in the morning.” He must have realized I was dumbfounded and decided to bring me back to reality by slapping my ass…homie moved from douche bag status to sack of shit status in one swift slap. Fast forward to the next morning-he drops Jamie off and then proceeds to tell me that he thinks I’m bipolar. Right pal-you just banged one of my best friends and then had the balls to bring her back to my house-and I’m bipolar? This type of frog is a called a “Khorhat frog or fanged frog, ” it is described as an “opportunistic eater” and lies in wait in stream beds to pounce upon its prey. This frog, [McFickle] taught me to bail at first sign of crazy-if a guy shows up to your house while you’re with someone else and REFUSES TO LEAVE-kick him in the balls. Also, if he can’t be exclusive for more the 7 days at any given time-kick him in the balls. And if he bangs one of your best friends and then drops her at your door step-kick him in the balls, slap that bitch in the face and lock their asses out. No penis is worth that drama. Don’t give into his “opportunistic” appetite. On to the next.