Friday, April 30, 2010

TGI... WTF? She's No Longer Your Brown-Eyed Girl

Do you love everything about your dog... except its unsightly anus?

Do you tend to call butts "heinies"?

Would you rather see a flower or a blue ribbon or a smiley face instead of the dark and muddy opening to what is unquestionably Satan's cave?

Do you remember when we used to sing... Fa la la la la la la la la la la te da... 

Well, friends, you're in luck thanks to the Rear Gear shop on Etsy. It's supposed to be funny (its motto is "No More Mr. Brown-Eye") but it's also a real thing that costs $5. From the site:
"Rear Gear comes in many designs including a disco ball, air freshener, heart, flower, biohazard, smiley face, number one ribbon, cupcake, sheriff's badge, dice, and you can even make yours custom..."
You can see I've highlighted "sheriff's badge," as this is my favorite. Hell, I kind of want one for myself. "I'm sorry, sir, you're not authorized 'round these parts. Move along."

The only question, really, is what the most awesome custom design would be. I think I'd go for an eye... or maybe a starfish.
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Thursday, April 29, 2010

Centaurs Versus Vampires: It is SO ON

Everyone is on the lookout for the next Twilight.

I don’t mean the actual next one, the one in which Bella and Edward finally bang, releasing enough pent-up teenage blue balls to solve the energy crisis.

I mean the next It... thing. The It creature.The It pop culture moment. Like vampires but less... sucky.

Hobbits and wizards have obviously been done to death. So let’s take a look at the other contenders:

ANGELS


Pop-culture touchstones: Clarence in It’s A Wonderful Life; Warren Beatty in Heaven Can Wait; Bruno Ganz and Otto Sander in Wings of Desire; John Travolta, wearing overalls and a shirt made of chest hair, in Michael (above); Nic Cage basically acting out the plot of The Little Mermaid—if, you know, Prince Eric had gotten killed by a truck at the end—in City of Angels; Christopher Walken in The Prophecy; Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, and Alan Rickman in Dogma; Christopher Lloyd in Angels in the Outfield; inappropriate Roma Downey/Della Reese porn show Touched By An Angel; angel dust (PCP); angel food cake (delicious); Shaggy song (ridiculous)

Pros: Look human; um... angelic?; can fly

Cons: Self-righteous; hard to fit wings into ironic, fitted flannel shirts; bell-ringing side effects unknown

DEVILS


Pop-culture touchstones: Al “Hoo-ah!” Pacino in The Devil’s Advocate (above); Elizabeth Hurley in Bedazzled; Viggo Mortensen in The Prophecy; Harvey Keitel in Little Nicky; Tim Curry in Legend; Linda Blair in The Exorcist; Trey Parker in South Park; Rosemary’s Baby Daddy; Devil Dogs; deviled eggs; “Devil With a Blue Dress On” by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels

Pros: Look human; have sexy bad-boy/girl thing going; demons in the sack

Cons: Will singe the shit out of your bedsheets; trident accidents not uncommon

ZOMBIES


Pop-culture touchstones: Dawn of the Dead; Shaun of the Dead; Night of the Living Dead; Return of the Living Dead; Day of the Dead; 28 Days Later; Rob Zombie; The Cranberries; Paris Hilton

Pros: Focused; hungry; can walk upright

Cons: Not dead in a sexy way like vampires... dead in a maggoty, falling-apart way; eat human flesh; bad conversationalists

GHOSTS


Pop-culture touchstones: Patrick Swayze; Casper; Slimer (above); Pac-Man's nemeses; Poltergeist; Haley Joel Osment

Pros: Mysterious; see-through; can inhabit Whoopie Goldberg

Cons: Disappear often; could be just some asshole in a sheet

FAERIES


Pop-culture touchstones: Tinker Bell; Oona from Legend (above); Sugar Plum fairy; Tooth fairy; Faerie Tale Theater; Shephard Fairey

Pros: Compact; adorable; make good Obama posters

Cons: Poor exchange rate for teeth; spelling of “faerie” admittedly pretty gay

WEREWOLVES


Pop-culture touchstones: Lon Chaney in The Wolf Man; Jack Nicholson in Wolf; Teen Wolf (above); An American Werewolf in London (and Paris); the terrible CGI in New Moon; Armenians

Pros: Will never go bald; decent at basketball

Cons: Will break the shit out of your razor; ticks

ALIENS


Pop-culture touchstones: Alf; Cocoon; ET; Jeff Goldblum in Teletubbies Earth Girls Are Easy (above); Alien; Close Encounters of the Third Kind; Mars Attacks!; Heathers lunchtime poll

Pros: Make old people young; can craft intergalactic communication device out of Speak N’ Spell and coffee can; score with Geena Davis

Cons: Eat cats; may blow up the world

GIANTS


Pop-culture touchstones: Roald Dahl’s The B.F.G.; the Gorgs from Fraggle Rock; Fezzik from The Princess Bride (above); They Might Be Giants

Pros: Tall; good at rhymes; really good at Malcolm in The Middle theme song

Cons: Will crush you during sex; hard to shop for shoes

ELVES


Pop-culture touchstones: Will Ferrell; Keebler elves; Snap, Crackle, and Pop; Liv Tyler/Orlando Bloom in The Lord of The Rings; Dudley Moore in 80s classic Christmas romp Santa Claus: The Movie (above); Hermey from that stop-motion Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer; David Sedaris’ "The Santaland Diaries"; Elvis Costello

Pros: Make delicious cookies/cereal/toys; will cobble shoes while you sleep

Cons: Poke holes in hats; stockings do not equal pants

YETI/BIGFOOT/SASQUATCH


Pop-culture touchstones: Harry and the Hendersons (above); Paris Hilton

Pros: You know what they say about megafauna cryptids with big feet…

Cons: Mange

MERMAIDS


Pop-culture touchstones: Ariel; Madison from Splash (above); The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock; Sirens

Pros: Flirtatious; nice piece of tail

Cons: Prone to streaking at the Statue of Liberty; lure sailors to shipwrecks; may have crabs

Hmmm. None of these are original enough. So I say the next vampire will be…

CENTAURS!!!


Pop-culture references: Mr. Tumnus from The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe; marble statues… THAT IS BASICALLY IT. SO MUCH MORE POTENTIAL!!!!

[UPDATE: Reader Ross alerts me to the fact that Mr. Tumnus was not a centaur but a faun. Whatever, in the movie he was half James McEvoy, half something else I wasn't paying attention to due to the James McEvoy half.]

Pros: Six-pack abs; fast like Seabiscuit

Cons: Sex scenes pose a problem (bestiality not generally part of New York Times bestseller list); ballroom dancing not a strength

Still, CENTAURS!!! You heard it here first. Stephanie Meyer, you are offically ON NOTICE.
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Wednesday, April 28, 2010

More Sartorial Missteps... Now In Syndication!

My Go Fug Myself post is syndicated on BlogHer today (BlogHer, the fabulous network that puts ads on my site so that someday I can watch the dollars roll in while I bid on NKOTB dolls on eBay, watch old episodes of Columbo just to piss off my Tom Selleck pillow, and dictate my memoirs to my personal assistant, Slash, whom I will force to use a typewriter because I like the dings at the ends of sentences. On his lunch breaks I will totally let him wail in front of churches, though.)

His mustache is itching with jealousy.

Anyway, go here to read it again. Like all comedy gold, it will be even richer the second time around (and I saw Honey, I Shrunk The Kids four times in the theater, so I know.)
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Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Oregon Train

An educational video game to be based on my commute this evening.
Date: April 27, 2010
Weather: Sigh.
Health: Eh.
Food: 1220 lbs. Oh wait, no. Have PopChips, not bison.
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Brick A Little, Talk A Little

True story: My dad was at one point so addicted to playing Brick Breaker on his BlackBerry that he would play one handed while standing at a urinal.

At the time I was appalled, but now I understand.

Last year, after I... uh... dropped my G1 into a glass of Shiraz, I got a BlackBerry Pearl and now the only toned part of my body is my right thumb. I play in bed, while watching TV, under the table at restaurants while Jeff is in the bathroom. If I really want a challenge I'll play in the backseat of gypsy cabs on the BQE or on the subway, drunk, while listening to distracting music (like "Blinded By The Light"... is he really singing "revved up like a douche"?) I've been known to play until my hand goes all numb and I have to throw my entire body into it to compensate.

This guy takes Brick Breaker way too literally.

Yes, I was also one of those kids who actually jumped while trying to reach coins in Super Mario Bros.

I think I need an intervention. Do they still make that show Colonial House?
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Monday, April 26, 2010

Date Night

On Saturday night, Jeff and I saw Date Night. On a date night.

We are obviously super original.

It wasn't as bad as I thought it might be, except that in the theater with us were a bunch of thirteen year-olds. You know how male peacocks display their iridescent feathers for prospective female mates? Well, thirteen year-old boys are like that, except instead of showing their plumage they talk loud during movies. They yell out single words, like "Breast!" or make loud, excited loogie noised like they are Al Pacino in Scent of A Woman.

I wanted to put them in their place. I mean, A) I wanted to be like, Why are you even seeing this movie? It's for old people like us. Isn't there some Judd Apatow bonerfest you could be watching? Or something with vampires?

And B) Nobody who has ever seen a real boob yells the word "Breast." Be cool, man. Jesus.

Luckily I was kind of drunk from dinner and also totally focused on picking out all of the green Sour Patch Kids, otherwise those young whippersnappers would have gotten a piece of my mind.
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Saturday, April 24, 2010

Shitty BlackBerry Photo Saturday!

Last night I was decompressing after a long week with a Breaking Bad marathon... just relaxing with some candles, violent deaths and drug crime, you know how it is. Anyway, I was thinking, What can I blog about this weekend? I'm lazy. And the laziest part of my brain, the drunken doormouse at the mad tea party that is my psyche, was all, Why don't you just download all your shitty BlackBerry photos and make a shitty photo essay?

They are so random, I want to present them without commentary at first. At the bottom I'll explain.


1. Obviously this is Bert, my unibrow patron saint, and Ernie, his lesser sidekick. There was a Sesame Street "exhibit" at the Brooklyn Public Library back in February that Jeff and I stumbled upon when Jeff went to take out some nerdy history books. I put "exhibit" in quotations because it was pretty much just these legless Muppet torsos waving from a display case. It was unnerving.

2. Elmo at Fashion Week! I don't know if he was there in some official capacity (like, um, to protest this designer?) or trying to get grown women to tickle him in his special place. All I know is that I have no idea what's going on.

3. Cooter Pie, America's favorite snack cake!

4. A friend who shall remain nameless for her own protection ganked these signs from me... from the United Nations. Yes, in 2010 the UN still uses what looks like the fake wood siding on a minivan to identify its delegates and guests. (I also scored "Indigenous Peoples" and "Eminent Persons.")

5. In celebration of Jeff's 30th birthday, we had mini donuts with freestanding letters stuck in them spelling out HAPPY BIRTHDAY. This donut said HA. I thought it was cute. (I was also kind of drunk.)

6. My favorite thing ever. So my friend Amy's daughter turned six recently, and at her party a little girl arrived in a pink wig. Later, Amy showed me this card:
I bet you fot I diyd my hair pink right? RON! ITS A WIG!
Now my favorite thing is to scream out "RON!" whenever I disagree with someone.

7. I bet you fot this was a mannequin, right? RON! It's April from Season 2 of America's Next Top Model, standing on a pedestal in a Macy's display.

8. A sign at a farm we visited in Massachusetts. I guess this is more hardcore than the sheep signs all over the highway in France. But still not as scary as deer leaping onto the Merritt.

9. Jeff with our son. What, did I never tell you we had a half-Filipino one year-old? Okay, fine, just kidding, we kidnapped a Gerber baby and are basically living out the plot of Raising Arizona. (Okay, fine, he belongs to our friends.)

10. There is no tenth photo. I just wanted to feel accomplished.

Now that this is done, I think I've earned some more TV.
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Friday, April 23, 2010

Pedro Lacks Political Experience—Vote for Anna!

Hi guys!

As you know, my computer is infected with some sort of Alanis Morissette swine flu, so my blogging will be somewhat interrupted until it recovers. I can use Jeff's computer (as I am doing now), but it's located in his Man Cave, which is like our apartment's version of the Fire Swamp from The Princess Bride. There aren't any Rodents of Unusual Size but there are Ashtrays of Unusual Fullness and iTunes of Unusual Loudness. Judging by the floor, it is also where all of our socks travel to breed, like in March of the Penguins.

Anyway, there won't be a TGI...WTF today (or at least not till later), because I have a reader request that I felt compelled to share. Reader Anna wrote to me asking if I would help her win a photojournalism scholarship, and you know me—I never shy away from a good deed that doesn't require me to get off my ass. Also I have a soft spot for photographers. (Not that soft spot. I mean my heart, people. My heart.)

Anyway, here's the deal, as explained by Anna:
I'm an aspiring photographer and want to study photojournalism in college, and I recently entered a photo scholarship contest sponsored by SIGMA. It requires the public to vote for the photographers, and the top 3 with the most votes at the end of this April are the only three considered for the scholarship. I need about 400 more votes to get myself in the top 3. 

Vote for Anna here! Let's get her a scholarship! Consider it your good deed for the day (or week, month, year—whatever).

P.S. All you need to do to vote is provide your email and then respond to a confirmation email from Sigma. It went into my Gmail spam folder, so check your spam.
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Thursday, April 22, 2010

Going Viral

My computer has a virus. The virus is that anti-virus scans keep popping up. My computer could teach Alanis Morissette a thing or two about the real definition of irony.

Anyway, I spent two hours last night trying to fix it, to no avail. At one point I actually punched my computer in the face. I mean, in the screen.

“Who are you, Walter?” Jeff asked.

He meant Walter White, the cancer-stricken, increasingly violent chemistry teacher-turned-drug lord from Breaking Bad (which, as you may recall, we have become obsessed with).

I do not think he meant this as a compliment, like “I bet you, too, could cook 40 pounds of super-pure meth surprisingly fast if you set your mind to it, even though you barely passed your 9th grade chemistry Regents.”

I think he meant it like, “Chill the fuck out and stop putting the beat-down on inanimate objects.”

My husband is very wise. My computer, on the other hand, is useless.

It’s like ten thousand spoons, when all I need is a knife... you know? ;)
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Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Barbie Girl

I recently came into the possession of two Barbie dolls, which Jeff and I got in our swag bags for The White House Project's Epic Awards (this was an event held the night before we went to DR. Meryl Streep was there, I drank some kind of vodka-lemonade mixture, and the rest is all a blur. Which obviously means that I was roofied by Meryl Streep. Bitch! At least I got some free shit.)

Anyway, I've already foolishly given the Barbies away to Twitter followers who claim to have children. I should have thought to hold some kind of blog raffle--I'll do that next time. But for now you will listen to my Barbie stories, dammit (even though they are as fractured as my Barbie's knees were after I tried to bend them the wrong way to make her double-jointed like my grade school BFF Halima).

Holla, bitches! This weave would make Tyra Banks shit twice and die.

I have no idea how many Barbies I had; I just know that they all ended up with hideous double chins because I would pop their heads off every so often in order to marvel at the little round balls at the tops of their plastic necks, and when I tried to put the heads back on they always got all square and misshapen, a Perfect 10 body with the head of Jabba the Hut. I was like a factory for Butterface Barbies in the mid to late 1980s.

My friend Adri had a lot of Barbies. For some reason she always named her Barbie "Michael" when we made up stories. Michael and my Barbie had a relationship that consisted of fighting over Ken (or my Donnie Wahlberg doll--I KNOW YOU ARE JEALOUS) and changing outfits approximately every five seconds. I didn't have this cultural reference at the time, but our Barbies were basically Carrie Bradshaw if she were given a horse's dose of methamphetamines and locked in her closet. They got dressed, admired each other, changed clothes, sat down, swapped shoes and put on hats, and then decided to go shopping, which of course necessitated a dressing room montage. One time we decided that Michael would travel to Hawaii only to be kidnapped by natives who plotted to burn her passport and birth certificate. Michael, naturally, changed clothes to attend the bonfire ceremony.

I can't remember when I stopped playing with Barbies, but I think it was around the time I brought home Jem. Jem, apart from being truly, truly, truly outrageous, was also larger in scale than Barbie, so much so that you just could not play with the two of them at the same time, because Jem ended up looking like Yao Ming. Her feet, as I recall, were giant and unsightly, and since I didn't have any of the Hologram or Misfit dolls I decided the only thing to do was to make Jem into an outcast. I gave her a crude buzz cut using dull scissors that nipped off bits of her scalp. I then wrote on her face with my purple gel pen. It should come as no surprise, considering my early affinity for obscenities, that I gave Jem a forehead tattoo that read, simply, "FUCK." The Barbies retreated (possibly to Hawaii to reunite with Michael) and I soon tired of playing with a doll that resembled a cross between Sinead O'Connor and Charles Manson.

Still, though, even drunk on vodka-and-lemonade, I got a little misty when I saw Barbie in my swag bag the other night. She seemed well; apparently she's a Pet Vet now (remember when Barbie's career was the same as her outift and made her sound like a cheap exotic dancer? Peaches N' Cream, Tropical... and who could forget Crystal Barbie, who soon went the way of Crystal Pepsi?). Each outfit now is matched with a career, modeled after successful women like Anne Geddes ("Baby Photographer Barbie") and Hillary Clinton ("Politician Barbie," who wears a sapphire blue pantsuit). We can only hope that someday there will be a "Blogger Barbie," resplendent in her burrito-encrusted sweatpants and threadbare t-shirt, inspiring little girls the world over to overshare their twisted childhood memories with the world.
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Tuesday, April 20, 2010

I Wanna Sex Wake You Up

So I was listening to "I Wanna Sex You Up" on my iPod the other day while walking to the bank (yeah, I have Color Me Badd's C.M.B album. SHUT UP IT IS AWESOME. I love Color Me Badd, I just can't decide who was my favorite: the one who looked like Tilda Swinton with a Jheri Curl or the one who looked like Nancy McKeon with a mustache.)


Anyway, it took me back to sixth grade, when I once slow-danced to the song with a boy—at least six inches shorter than I—who was wearing overalls and had a flat-top. I was getting lost in my adolescent reverie when I started really listening to the lyrics, specifically:

Girl you make me feel real good,
We can do it till we both wake up

You know the sex is good when you fall asleep doing it. And I thought Hammer pants were supposed to increase virility. Damn.

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Monday, April 19, 2010

Interviewing the Project Runway Finalists

I was in the back seat of a cab trying to beat my Brick Breaker score last week when an email popped up on my BlackBerry from Kannie Yu LaPack, publicity director for Lifetime Television. "Would you be interested in lunch with the 3 finalists?" she wrote. I tried to come up with a more professional response than "Fuck yes!" and typed something about how I would love to. A few days later she sent me the details: the lunch would be at Sea Grill on W. 49th Street, and the finalists (accompanied by a Lifetime publicist) would meet me there. "I'm not the only press, am I?" I wrote, to which Kannie responded "You sure ARE." Gulp.

The morning of the interview I was dismayed to find that I had nothing clean in my closet except for a pair of black jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt (which, at least, is better than the free shirt I got from Pop Chips proclaiming "Snackers do it between meals"). I hoped against hope that the finalists would not judge my garments as harshly as I have judged theirs for the past twelve weeks.

I'm sorry I said you looked like a middle-aged Rudy from Fat Albert, Emilio!

When I got to Sea Grill at the appointed time, I suddenly blanked on the name of the publicist who was meeting me there, so I probably gave the hostess the impression that English was not my first language. "Um, I'm meeting a group?" I asked, though it was not a question. "The... um... Project Runway?"

"Yes, they're already here," she said, and led me around a corner to a round table where Seth Aaron, Emilio, Mila and the publicist--Jennie, which I totally should have memorized using the Tommie Tutone song, damn!--were waiting.

Read the rest on HuffPo! And if you've forgotten how awkward I am interviewing celebrities, here is a humbling refresher.
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Photos From DR

All courtesy of the amazing Jeff.

It was pretty...

I mean, if you like blue skies, sun and sand. 

The very first thing I did was accidentally clog the toilet. Apparently you don't throw toilet paper into the toilet in the Dominican Republic. Anyway, there is no photo of that. Back to blue skies.


Sometimes, though, we had to get away from all of that picturesqueness, so we played cards. (Not pictured: Pass the Pigs. Oh, yes we did.)


We drank rum and cokes on the beach... One day a man came up and sold us a coconut and we poured rum into the hole at the top and drank rummy coconut milk. Mmmmmm.


We went out to a nice dinner for my birthday. Jeff toasted me (he looks so grim because he just realized he can no longer say he is sleeping with a younger woman). He also wore this striped shirt and flip flops the whole time, which is unlike him, but essential for his transformation into Island Jeff. Everything is irie with Island Jeff.


We bought mangoes at the supermarket and ripened them in the sun...


I stared off into the ocean and contemplated things, like entering a new decade and also how to surreptitiously use other people's toilets since mine was out of order.


It was a great trip.


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Saturday, April 17, 2010

Triscuits and Nipples... and Other Bed Pan Stories

Jeff and I always joke that the least sexy food you could bring into bed is crackers. Triscuits and nipples simply should not meet.

Everything bagels are dangerous, too: You try to have a nice breakfast in bed and the next thing you know you're wondering how a sesame seed ended up down there.

I once tried to burn off the head off a tick I believed to be wedged in my shin... turned out it was a poppy seed. True story.

Brownies present the same crumb problem, but they have the added bonus of bringing new meaning to the words "bed pan." "Honey, can you fetch me my bed pan... of Betty Crocker Chocolate Chunk?" 

Whoever thought to bring hot soup to a sick bed is an asshole. You are already sick; you don't need a scalding chicken broth shot to the crotch as you attempt to lift your spoon with arms so weak and soft people might suspect your husband is raising you for veal.

Can you tell I'm writing this in bed right now? What you don't know is that I'm gnawing on a leg of lamb*. Ah, Saturday.

*Not really. It's actually a whole suckling pig.
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Friday, April 16, 2010

TGI... WTF? Be All That You Can BJ

This is apparently a real trophy...


I have to say I'm glad to see Yul Brynner immortalized in bronze, but this takes "getting to know you" to a whole new level.

Yes, kids, The King and I + blow job jokes. It happened. Happy Friday!
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Thursday, April 15, 2010

Go Fug Myself 2010

So last night, in celebration of my 30th birthday, Jeff and I watched Chappelle's Show, ate Mexican food, and fell asleep at 10 pm.

TEN PM.

It's like our biological clocks have suddenly reset to "early bird special."

It's 10 pm. Do you know where your children are? No, because I was asleep. It's a good thing we don't have kids. Do you know that last week I found a Cadbury Mini Egg melted and smeared on the couch after Jeff fell asleep on top of it? It looked like poop, but since we don't have any pets I taste-tested it.

Anyway, I digress. This is the promised Go Fug Myself post, a birthday tradition as of 2007. This year I decided to take pity on L'il Una and focus on the growned-up version. Well, for the most part.


Circa 1990: This I must address, if only for the pants. The shirt (that says "Una") is, obviously, awesome, as are the unibrow and vaguely crimped hair. The acid wash jeans, however, are the sartorial equivalent of smelling my own armpit, as I seem to be doing here.


1998: This is me, at my wake... I mean, prom. I had terrible skin, so I decided to cover it with Kabuki-like makeup. Little did I know I was before my time; seven years later, Edward Cullen would make pasty morgue skin sexy. (Bonus: my prom date had the reddest face ever, so we looked like a Halloween couple dressed as Mike and Ike's.


Also 1998: Want to guess which Puerto Rican gang member I am in my high school production of West Side Story? Your clue is: thighs. Whoever said vertical stripes are slimming certainly didn't mean spandex.


Yup, still 1998: Speaking of ethnic adventures, here I am modeling some kind of Mexican peasant top for what I hoped would be my freshman year directory photo.

(It ended up being this:)

Anyway, I like to think of the shirt as a piece of flair for my teen angst. Kind of like a sarcastic "Ole!"


1999: I cropped my sister out of this photo because otherwise she would never speak to me again. This was on a ferry in Seattle, the summer after I cut off all my hair and learned once and for all that in order to pull that look off you have to be gamine and have a tiny nose and also maybe NOT be wearing sneakers the color of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Yet again I am reminded of the grandpa in Sixteen Candles when he's on the phone with the police looking for the missing Long Duck Dong: "What was he wearing? Well, uh, let's see, he was wearing a red argyle sweater, and tan trousers, and red shoes... No, he's not retarded."


2002: This photo encapsulates everything that is wrong with being 22. The fake sexy face that kind of looks like you're pouting while taking a dump, the incredibly visible bra, the fact that you think you are totally the shit, and so pose for your friend's camera with your pouty-dump face. Agh, shoot me.


2006: I'm not sure which is worse: The fact that I'm using socks as oven mitts or that tie-dye tank top. Either way, I'm making an "uh-oh" face. That might also be because I forgot pants. Whatever I'm cooking better be fucking worth it.


2004: I went through a period in 2004 when I thought wearing a tie was the cutest. I really could not get enough of myself. Sometimes (as above), I looked like a dwarf accountant. Other times, I looked like... well, like this:


Which accessory is more unforgivable: The cigarette... or that belt?


2005: Aaaaaand, this photo encapsulates everything that's wrong with being 25: the naivete required to purchase Carmen Electra's aerobic striptease DVD, and that sweatband. The bravado necessary to pose with a screen shot of the DVD (and, of course, pouty-dump face).

Here we come to a fun segment I like to call "Camera Pregnancies":


2003: That's me and my friend Bajir. We were not, shockingly, members of a basketball team (as you may recall, I am not a star athlete). And I am not, shockingly, five months pregnant, as it might appear from my belly, which is so fetchingly protruding from beneath my shortened jersey.

I also caught preggers the night before my wedding in 2007:


This, friends, is the skinniest I have ever been. At my wedding I looked downright emaciated. But the 3/4 turn pose you see here--coupled with the unfortunate empire waist of my dress--created a seven month-old fetus.

I will end with a re-post of the photo I use as my blog banner, and one of my personal faves. Note the selfsame acid wash jeans from the first photo. Circle of life, y'all.


UNA: You wish you looked like me.
ZOE: Can it, bitch.
UNA: You wish you had high-waisted, acid-washed denim Capri pants.
ZOE: Actually I’m pretty sure I’m better off pantsless.
UNA: My two-piece looks like the Carvel ice cream logo. I RULE.
ZOE: You have one eyebrow and no belly-button. How does that work?
UNA: At least I’m not wearing bunny sneakers, halfpint.
ZOE: Um, I believe you belong in guest parking, hag. Read the sign.
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