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Mufie
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Country: United States
State: New York
Metro: New York City
Birthday: 9/6/1983
Gender: Female
Interests: Writing (news, features, editorial, reviews, fiction, poetry), film-going, reading, pop culture, Hollywood/L.A. and NYC, travel, laughter, I really do love the '80's, Back to the Future, shopping as therapy, music (eclectic taste spans from Beatles to Madonna, Billy Joel, girly country, Jimi, DMB, John Mayer, young pop, dance/techno, everything), neo-feminist/activism, left liberal politics, history, time travel, conspiracy theory, pink and turquoise, Sex & the City , dancing fast and slow, alone or with someone else -- anywhere from a club to my bedroom, reading A&E and lifestyles magazines (EW!), Harry Potter, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, gourmet food, naps, basking in sunshine, coziness, summer, kissing, back scratches, seafood/sushi/popcorn/wraps & frappucino/smoothies/chocolate!, the ocean, Vicky's Secret undies, singing in the car, perfume/high-end cosmetics (MAC and NARS are my fave brands), Sephora, New Age, walking down memory lane and straight ahead
Expertise: Writing, optimism, celebrity relations, various forms of escapism and uses for the imagination, journalism, personal fitness, shopping, the advantages of being under 5 ft., learning astrology and Tarot, loyalty and loving, feeling lucky to be alive.
Occupation: Assistant editor
Industry: Media
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  PenPaperPrincess
Member Since:
3/3/2003
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| pretty ugly.Yes, it's a couple of days after the fact, but what initially only slightly irked me has since bulked up to mushroom-cloud proportions and must be addressed—pronto.
Monday night. Golden Globes 2007. All the stars were out to traipse down their red carpet to be fawned over by totally self-disrespecting entertainment journalists (*ahem*Billy Bush*ahem*) in order to sit in a room where they could applaud for one another inbetween rounds of schmoozing one another in order to (with the exception of holier-than-those like Mommy & Daddy Pitt) stand around at a V.I.P. post-party and pat one another on the back before ditching into (hidden?) corners to snort coke.
Can you tell Hollywood left a bad taste in my mouth?
Nonethless, perhaps it is thanks to my personal experience with La-La Land of Sluthespians 'n' Pseudo-ducers that I was able to see through the patronizing standing ovation bestowed upon Best Actress winner, America Ferrera.
I've watched Ugly Betty pretty inconsistently but at least a handful of times. I'd agree it is one of the best shows on TV this season. I admire Salma Hayek, in fact, I even would go so far to say that I have a girl crush on her cuz she's got a big mouth, rack and talent. And I was aware of America Ferrera (via Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and Real Women Have Curves) prior to her portrayal of the "mag"-nate's meshgite gopher from Queens. She's got acting chops and the show is championing a cause I back maybe more than any other—furthering female self-esteem by crushing superficial standards of beauty.
That said... When America won on Monday, and a room of self-important skinnies leapt to their feet to cheer for her, my heart fell. It was so patronizing. It reeked of head-patting subtext: "Look at you! You normal-weight Latina who isn't traditionally Tinseltown appropriate-pretty. You really won! WOW! Good for you!" That prevailing sentiment was echoed even louder by MC-Bitch Maria Menonous (fellow Emerson alum) who, in all of her ana-glam ironed-hair glory, condescendingly quizzed America offstage, "What do you say to all those people out there who did not want you to play Ugly Betty?" Give. Me. A break!
I'm not even the only one who noticed this nausea-inducing display of backlash against "real beauty." See: here...
All I'm sayin'... looks like the Ugly-iest of them all...definitely isn't Betty. | | |
| kiss, kiss.Life's not so bad. Especially when you're wearing lipgloss. | | |
| start. to finish.I'll often jokingly assert my psychic abilities. And yeah, I do think that I'm blessed with a coveted sixth sense, but it's better honed to help notify me that "Chasing Cars" will be the next song on KISS-FM than anything particularly useful. I am, however, positive that I'm gifted with instinct and intuition. Delicately woven together, both allow me to be psychic in a way... or at least more assured about any given situation. Most importantly, the combination allows the chance to recognize beginnings and endings.
Beginnings. I met Nadima my freshman year during speech team auditions, awaiting my turn in the dim, irridescently-lit Sandburg hallways. And from that point on, I think it's like we couldn't not be friends. Because I feel like we knew each other somehow even before that day.
Jason and I met in Hillel, I said my favorite movie was Back to the Future, he chimed in with enthusiastic agreement and I knew, deep in the back of my mind, that this click couldn't be easily checked off. We still say the same thing at the same time, from time to time.
Keith was laying flat on his back in his single dorm room, a group of other Emerson college freshmen laughing and chattering about. I walked in, probably to spy on where all the rucus (and loud music?) was coming from and intrigue gave way to instinct. Here was a kindred spirit, someone with whom I'd create a lifetime of happy friendship.
Colleen, Joann, Elena, Jordan, Carey, Jon... Just a few people who could have just been passersby. Just a classmate, not a confidante; just a fling, not a friend. Instead, I know I knew from the get-go there was more to the story for these people. And instinct and intuition suggest there definitely are more chapters to come.
Endings. I can look at a lover and know. I'll feel the plummeting of my own gut, the dulling of smiles, and insistent quiet that prevails, as I re-verse myself in a disappointed heart's emergency exit plan.
Rumor has it that when you meet the One, you just know. I'm not sure about that one quite yet. But I do think that when it's Over, I definitely know. Flat cold kisses, empty careless words, reckless childish diversions. Distance, disappearing acts and deceiving. I've become too familiar with all of these tricks, as each has at some point claimed and clouded my path. Maybe I'm so accustomed to distance and denial, that I am naturally defensive. Ok, but no boo-hooin'. Hurt has only sharpened my instinct. Disillusion has breathed fire into my intuition.
Thanks to these can't-hold-me-down sixth sense powers, I think I can say with full confidence, I really am a few steps closer to spotting (and hopefully snagging) some One.  | | |
| happy.It doesn't really take that much. A trip down the elevator. A revolving door that leads to a city sidewalk and a bustling thoroughfare that I call the block where I work. A little music, softer at first and then at recognition of a classic...turned up really loud. Realizing that even though it's raining, an umbrella would just be silly. Warm coat over cozy layers and walkable boots OK for sloshing. Gliding past tourists and lip-synching like I just don't care. Because "Do You Love Me" is kinda funny to walk to in the rain. Noticing a green glowing traffic light shining on an empty city street as the misting rain begins to pelt the asphalt, while cooling my perspiring forehead. A subway train that scoots around a tunnel corner and whizzes by, just barely brushing my cheek. A burst of energy that carries my stair-climbing feet back above ground. Floating down Spring Street and under canopies of wet lime-turned-caramel leaves, sloshing through their fallen friends on the pavement, then, at the corner, savoring a whiff of Ben's saliva-inducing slices. Noting baby held close to mother and small dog happy to wiggle its way ahead of owner through the crowd. Eye catching the cherry glow of a perfect designer pump in a thrift store window and realizing that it is my small-slash-hard-to-find size. Walking past the window...then back...and into the store to closely examine the shoe, just examine it for a moment and imagine it encasing my foot. Glamorous...but unaffordable. But you know, a girl can pretend... Curtailing tall model type while departing thrift store, satisfied without having bought a thing. Taking a moment at the intersection to breathe in the scent of November in SoHo and the fruit at the market, peering at plump, friendly pumpkins displayed prominently. Staring at possible oncoming traffic down Prince, hoping not to catch the eye of walkersby, as they may somehow detect that I have a secret. That I'm uncontrollably smiling to myself. Because, all it takes is the feeling of chance and this city, really...to make me like this. Happy. | | |
| Letter to the Love of My LifeDear Bashert/Soul Mate/Prince Charming,
So I often say, writing is the love of my life, but truth of the matter is, I can't exactly do it with words, so I've gotta ask, where the hell are you? I know it has only been 23 years, but when you think about it, that's kind of a long time to hang out solo... I don't need you to show up immediately, but it would be nice...if there was a sign...so I could be assured that you're on your way. Or that you even exist.
Mostly because I'm sick of waiting and wishing and fantasizing and theorizing and dating doh-doh-heads. I'm sure you've been on your share of shitty dates, but I have to bet I've been on more. That's because I put myself out there a lot, in hopes that you'll turn up. I've even traveled back and forth across the continent, thinking that you were someone on an opposite coast. But whether I went by train, plane or automobile, I've been fooled. Granted, not every guy's been a doh-doh. There've been some uh-ohs, some oh-hell-nos and some ohh-God-ohhs... But they come, and go. And now it's just me, and I gotta tell ya, I'm getting sort of frustrated.
I realize that my nature is to romanticize and idealize moments and realities of life that are often much grittier and uncontrollable than I give them credit. Like making love or being in a relationship. Nothing's purely effervescent, even in love. But I have faith that I might find someone who makes me feel that way, at least some day. I guess "today" has been catching up with me...what with wanting live in the moment and all that.
I don't want to throw up my hands and admit defeat and say, F it, I'll just become a cat lady! That's just too desperate and dramatic, even for me. On the other hand, I'm looking for that blissful balance wherein I'm just so damn busy that the thought of where you are barely even occurs to me. I've been in that zone from time to time, but it rarely is a lasting state. I'm far too much in love, with the hope of being in love.
You're probably chuckling wherever you are, if you are somewhere. That's really all I hope for... a lot of laughter, from you, from me, caused by both of us. And kissing. Encouragement, trust and respect would all be cool, too. I have all of these things from wonderful friends and relatives in my life, but I still think you'd be a valuable addition. I know I could make you happier, too.
Plus, there'd be bagels on Sunday mornings... and we'll lay around like bums all day and then go out to VIP, black-tie affairs at night... and on hot summer evenings, we'll walk down the block for ice cream. We'll sing rock 'n roll loudly in the car, as I figure you'll probably be into The Beatles, Stones, Zep and acoustic singer-songwriter folk rock as much as me. (Hopefully, you won't be into Madonna and Britney Spears as much as I am, because that'd be kinda gay, but maybe you'll enjoy the little dance numbers I make up while clad in my underwear.) I'd speed up my learning curve on how to make matzo ball soup and you could take me to your home team's game. Or we could go see the Cubs sometime in Chicago. (They're my team. Hey, maybe they're yours, too?)
Listen, I am, and have always been, as Destiny's Child put it, an independent woman. I can do this whole single thing; in fact, I have it down pretty well. I never want to be one half of a co-dependent pairing. I couldn't be one of those women who refers in "us"es as opposed to "me"s.... I'm incapable of being that someone who, when with someone else, is unrecognizable to the world without that other person. I do, however, want to have a companion, a confidante, a partner in crime, a Clyde to my Bonnie, a Noah to my Allie, Harry to my Clare. You're him, but it sucks that you're being so damn elusive.
Anyway, I just had to write to tell you that I'm annoyed with you and disappointed that you haven't shown up yet, while I heat up frozen dinners for one and take up the whole bed when I'd rather be sharing some space. It is a warm, cozy space, and it really has been on the market for a little longer than I would like to admit. I've tried to hire middlemen to help us out (like JDate), but in the end, I don't think that's how I'm going to meet you. I guess maybe I could have already met you, but you aren't in my life, because it's still not the right time? I know I tend to be impatient, but I have to say, I really would like nothing more than for it to be the time...soon.
Sorry, I know I can get kinda Woody Allen at times. I blame my Jewishness and NY residency. You should understand, or at least be amused by it, because when I go off the deep end, most times, you'll laugh softly, shake your head and smile secretly at me, looking at me with that little smoldering spark in your eye. Cuz you'll know and appreciate all of my off-beat basic behavior. And I'll know you know. And that comfy electricity between us is what will keep us together.
Ok, I'll try to wrap this up for now... I just thought I'd try to get some of this off my chest, cause frustration and hunger, as far as I'm concerned, are really hard to keep pent up! I hope you're on your way. I'm really, really looking forward...
Always,
Maressa | | |
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