I love coffee. Sometimes people try to switch my coffee to decaf when I’m not looking. I can always tell the difference. I also like Pringles, but only the reduced fat kind because they crunch better when you bite into them and they don’t leave grease on your fingers. I’m…

About Me

As part of our quest to support women’s issues, Katana Photography is excited to announce our first ever Celebrating Survival contest!
Having any kind of cancer is frightening and confusing. In recognition of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Katana Photography is welcoming all survivors from all forms of cancer to participate…

Weekly Photo

When I was looking to buy my wedding invitations (back in April), I found a lot of designers on Etsy. After narrowing it down to a couple different designs/companies, I contacted both for their pricing list. One was pretty significantly more expensive–almost $2 per invitation more. Which I think all…

Weekly Style

When talking to people about photography, I hear one phrase over and over again: Kids and dogs are the hardest subjects to photograph.
I, personally, don’t have this problem with my clients…kids and dogs are among my favorite things to photograph. Maybe it’s because I like to have any excuse…

Weekly Puppies

Last week, Sean and I had our morning coffee on the balcony and watched as the Enterprise shuttle was pulled down the Hudson on a tug boat. It’s on its way to the Intrepid and I can’t wait to see it up close at the museum!

Weekly Coffee

You Know You’re Famous When You Get Hate Mail…

For those who didn’t see Anonymous’ comment, posted yesterday April 28, 2008 at 4:17pm, let me post it again:

“you know, i was gonna just send an email to say that you must be the result of incest..but that really is tangential isn’t it. my goodness, this is really immature, no?

all in all, women like you seriously have no business having dogs at this juncture. i’m sure you love your dog, but dogs need more than love. they need happy, mature parents.”

Well, Anonymous, I was going to respond to this last night, but the boyfriend! convinced me to instead take a moment, go grab a beer and play him in a game of pool. And I agreed that this was a good idea. Besides, if we can’t find a cue to play with, we could always grab the one stuck up your ass. There may even be two in there if we’re lucky.

And the more I thought about your comment, the more asinine it sounded to me. And the more asinine it sounded to me, the less I wanted to dignify it with a response.

Or maybe it’s just my inability to respond because I’m so high from all that cocaine I just snorted off of Red’s snout.

Like Nails on a Hardwood Floor Chalkboard

Yesterday, Red woke up at 6:00 just to let us know that he was in a bad mood and had no one to share it with. We had been out late the night before, absurdly partaking in activities involving beer and wine, which would require much more than your typical eight hours of sleep to recover from and therefore were unprepared for the assault of a cold wet nose snarfing in my face. Yes, snarfing. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about? It’s the act of putting your nose in someone’s face and exhaling through your nostrils. If you’re successful, snot and watery discharge will spray all over your victim’s face. The assailant is typically that of the canine family.

So anyway, Red woke up. And when I yelled at him to go back to sleep, this apparently translated from English to Dog-ese as, “Pace around from the bedroom to the living room impatiently.” Red has very long toenails. And we have hardwood floors with no carpeting. The combination is less than desirable. So now, I kept hearing Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Pause. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Over and over again until I felt the dire need to stick a pencil straight up my nose and give myself a lobotomy.

He’s being dropped off at the Humane Society tomorrow. (kidding, kidding)

PS – I have been tagged to do a 6 Random Things About Me type of post by Merry. It is coming soon! Don’t be too excited, people.


**Warning…the links below have gruesome/graphic images of a starving dog.

From what I can tell by researching different articles on the so-called “artist” Guillermo Vargas Habacuc, most claims and petitions against him are valid.

Habacuc allegedly hired children to catch a feral dog. It is said that he tied the dog to a short leash at a gallery for several days, with no food and water until it died. There are pictures to support this evidence. Many people visited and watched this dog die.

The Central American Biennial, a prestigious exhibition, somehow concluded that this heinous act as art, and Habacuc has been invited to repeat his “exhibit” at the Biennial of 2008 in Honduras.

Habacuc has claimed that what he “was attempting to prove was that those who saw the suffering of the dog just walked on by and that if it had been left on the street to die, no-one would have even known of its existence,” according to EuroWeekly.

It was also reported that the dog did not die, but escaped, and that it had been fed by Habacuc and was only tied up during the gallery opening times. There is obviously no way to confirm this statement.

What is apparent to me is the fact that this display was an act of cruelty. Whether it’s considered “artful” or not is besides the point…it is first and foremost cruel and intended to generate pain and suffering on an innocent animal.

Furthermore, Vargas’ claim that if this animal “had been left on the street to die, no-one would have even known of its existence” is completely untrue. Not everyone is so heartless and savage as yourself, Guillermo. At the very least, when the creature was abandoned, he was given a chance. A chance to scrounge for food and drink from a dirty puddle. The chance to stretch his legs and exercise. The chance that someone with a heart would have taken him in to become a member of their family.

He cannot repeat this act. His participation in the 2008 Biennial must be stopped. Please visit this site or this site to sign the petition against this.

It’s That Time of Year Again

It’s that time of year again. The time of year when you are expected to put on overalls, grab your hoe (and I’m not talking about the woman standing on the corner in fishnets, fellas), stick your hands deep in the dirt and plant a tree.

Yes, it is Earth Day! And while I don’t have plans to go plant any trees today (a tree would literally take up my entire backyard), I am going to start my herb and vegetable garden! So far, I have basil, cilantro, and tomatoes. I am also going to plant some lavender because the scent is so intoxicating that the boyfriend! will most likely find me laying beside the lavender plant caressing its leaves gently once it blooms. But that’s besides the point. Any other suggestions on vegetables to plant?

I remember once as a kid asking my mom about the environment. For the sake of tying the story into today’s post, I’ll claim that this occurred on Earth Day, 1988.

Me: Mama…why do they cawl it Mothew Eawth? (That’s “Mother Earth” for those who can’t depict my speech impediment in writing)

Mama: (In the grocery store, examining the label of something) Mm, because the Earth protects and nourishes us just like a mommy does her children.

Me: (Thinks this over for a minute) But doesn’t it huwt her when we walk all over Eawth?

Mama: Mmm. Yes, I suppose so. (not really listening, she tosses a box of saltines into the cart behind where I’m sitting)

Me: (sniff) But, I don’t want to huwt Mothew Eawth. What if I tiptoe awound?

Mama: Uh-huh, honey. That’s a great idea. (She throws some rice cakes on top of the saltines)

Me: Mama…(sniff)I love Eawth!!! I don’t want to huwt her!!!!! (Tears are now streaming down my face)

Mama: (Finally looking up from the grocery list, startled) What? Why are you crying? (She leans over, scooping me into her arms. I sob against her neck, tears staining her silk blouse. She picks me up out of the grocery cart and takes a few steps away)

Me: No!! Tipy-toes! Walk on your tippy-toes!! (I cry harder)

Mama: I didn’t understand your question, tootsie! Walking around actually feels like good to Mother Earth. Like…a…massage.

Me: What’s a muss-ahge?

Mama: I meant…a hug. Walking around feels like a hug to Mother Earth!

Me: Really? (sniff)

Mama: (nods)

Me: Ok!! (I hop down out of my mother’s arms and as she continues her grocery shopping, I stomp around behind her, giving the Earth the biggest hug I can. Later, in line to pay, I stand behind my mom still smashing my feet into the floor as hard as I possibly can.)

Old Cranky Woman: (To my mother) What is she doing?

Me: I’m giving Mothew Eawth the biggest hug I can! (I exclaim proudly, beaming with pride)

Old Cranky Woman: (still looking at my mother) She’s what?

Mama: Just as she said. She’s hugging Mother Earth. (And with that, my mom starts stomping her feet next to me. Cranky Old Woman decides to switch lines.)

For years after this, I always imagined Earth snuggling up against my feet with every step. And on my way to work today, I thought back to that day in the grocery store. Though the New York cement wasn’t nearly as gentle on my feet as running barefoot in the grass, I still walked a little heavier with each step. It had simply been too long since I’d given Mother Earth a good hug–er, I mean, stomp.

A Hip Hop Comic Con Shout Out

A Hip Hop Comic Con Shout Out
A Hip Hop Comic Con Shout Out
This is a shout out to Hip Hop Chris from NYCC. (Did I pull that off, Chris? ‘Shout out”? At least I know it sounded better than Sean did saying “Word.”)

I was a good little girlfriend this weekend. I attended the New York Comic Con on Friday and Saturday and escorted the boyfriend! to a party thrown for DC’s employees. Ok, ok…he didn’t exactly have to twist my arm to attend a function at the Empire State Building with free dinner and an open bar. But the con itself is rather intimidating for a girl who’s never seen Star Wars or any other movie or show based on long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away (or some shit like that).

I wore a navy blue, V-neck dress with ruffles at the bottom and a peacock blue sash that tied loosely around my waist. My hair was pulled back and had wavy tendrils cascading in front of my face. I took one last look in the mirror before grabbing my new, amazing Pan AM purse (The single greatest investment of my life…until I buy something else new, of course). This looks right, I thought to myself, just like the girlfriend of a comic illustrator.

I was greeted at the Javitz Center by a storm trooper standing in the middle of the intersection. He gave an exaggerated look up and down at my outfit, then, resting his hands on his white shell covered hips shook his head at me.

“What?” I started at him, not able to see his eyes. “I belong here!”

His head tilted to the side, mockingly.

“See? Here’s my guest pass.” I tugged on the cheap, plastic tag in the outer pocket of my purse.

Leaning in closer, he examined the validity of my pass.

“You think I’m over dressed?” I said quieter.

He pointed to his nose with one hand, and with the other, at me.

Just then a tall woman holding a whip, with purple streaked, jet black hair passed by. She wore what can only be described as a fishnet body stocking with nothing but a bra and panties underneath.

“Well, this will have to do” I said, “I left my catwoman costume at the brothel last night.”

But storm trooper was no longer interested with girl in the blue dress. His eyes were glued on the dominatrix goth girl. I moved along, passing a dozen other women in fishnets and leather, several Leia’s in the gold bikini, a few Poison Ivy’s…and many many more characters that I couldn’t even begin guessing who they were supposed to be.

While walking around the con with the boyfriend! on one of his breaks, he asked me who I would dress as if I HAD to come in costume. I gave him a look of disgust. Rolling his eyes, he added, “Just indulge me. I know you would never dress up for this…but if you absolutely had to…who would you be?”

I thought for a moment. “Tomb raider. Cause I could just wear cargo shorts and a cut off wife beater.”

“Good answer,” He nodded.

“And I’d style my hair in a french braid.”


“And do my make up so that my lips would look bigger,” I added.

“Um, ok…”

“And I’d have to have a gun holster. You can’t be Lara Croft without a gun holster.”

“Oh no,” He said rolling his eyes. “I lost you to the comic nerds…”

“Hm…maybe I would even wear a wig…just to get the hair coloring right…” I was talking more to myself now.

“I want my girlfriend back.”

Aside from feeling slightly out of place, it was a lot of fun. Found a few interesting graphic novels I am looking forward to reading and I loved watching the boyfriend! be adored by fans! He was like a quasi celebrity and it was hysterical to watch. The guys who live in the apartment below us even stopped by and had a geek out moment when Sean was signing some books. At one point, Sean even said the words, “Guys, guys…I’m just like you.” I snorted my coffee upon hearing this.

For those who haven’t seen his work…I attached a couple examples above. Or check out his site at

The First Time I Was Dumped (Part One)

Occurred: February, 2000

My pink comforter was lumpy beneath my body. Although it was soft cotton, I may as well have been lying on rocks. Dried tears stained my flushed cheeks and although it was 2pm on a Monday, all I wanted to do was curl up and fall asleep.

Snow covered the ground outside. And by “covered” I mean I could have taken a feather duster and cleared the roads myself in a matter of two hours. It was one of those rare North Carolina winters where the skies opened up and allowed frozen flakes of bliss to come drifting slowly to the ground and actually stick to the roads. Every night for two weeks we got just enough snow to close the schools. Yes, my school closed as a result of one inch of snow for two weeks straight that February. It may be naïve, but I believe it was God’s way of letting me deal with my first breakup in the sanctuary of my own home as opposed to in a crowded hallway of people pointing and whispering. Never again since then has High Point, NC gotten two straight weeks of consistent snowfall.

This particular Monday was Day One of the snowfall. Three nights prior to that day, my first boyfriend dumped me. He dumped me through a friend. Over the phone. And then as a consolation, told her that, “He would still take me to prom if I wanted.” My response to that? “Fuck you, Ian.” Ok, that wasn’t really my response back then, but it would be now. His comment resulted in three days of inconsolable tears, and it just kept getting worse.

Ian and I became best friends the summer before my sophomore year of high school. He’d walk with me to class, even if it wasn’t his usual route. Now and then I’d find little notes left in my locker, just saying Hi! with a smiley face. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew he really liked me.

I was finally getting used to the new town my parents had moved us to. Having finally found my niche of friends, Ian being one of a few, I relaxed into a groove. I was acting in community theatre, singing in school choir, performing in my school’s drama program, dancing in a workshop with a woman who at the time was my mentor, volunteering at church, and participating in random intramural sports.

Ian was tall and lanky with long arms and a deep voice for a guy who was only 16 years old. He was also an actor. We met freshman year in the spring musical. He came barreling toward me like a saint bernard running toward kibbel.

“You’re the new girl, right?”

I nodded but didn’t respond. My arms tightened around my books as I pressed them into my flat chest.

“Cool. You’ve been the talk of the school! We don’t get too many new students here.”

I cleared my throat, preparing to say something…anything. Come on Colleen…think. I glanced down and on his wrist I saw a friendship bracelet that was fraying at the edges. It was blue and green and looked handmade. Bumps and extra string hung out where it shouldn’t. “I like your bracelet,” I said quietly.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” he smiled. “My little sister made it for me. Green’s my favorite color, so, she chose to make it in blue and green…you know,” he said nodding.

I nodded along with him while my mind searched again for something to say… “Green,” I paused, “Like…a frog.” My God. Could I be a bigger idiot?

He laughed. “Yeah, like a frog. What’s your name?”

“Colleen,” I gulped air down my throat, trying to remind myself to keep
breathing, “with two ‘e’s.” Why I felt the need to add that last part, I’ll never know. I groaned to myself.

He smiled revealing big teeth. “Cool. I’ll see you around, Colleen—with two e’s.”

I watched him walk away, all tall and dreamy. He had dark hair, light brown eyes, and a long face with chubby cheeks; the kind of cheeks that people tell you for years will thin out, but never do. I have the same cheeks.

He and I started “going out” in April of our sophomore year. I loved him in that “You’re my first boyfriend, puppy-dog, doe-eyed” kind of way. He had invited me to see a movie; some god-awful film about a talking parrot. And then, at the end of the night, before his parents picked us up at the mall, he kissed me. His lips consumed my face, covering down past my chin and instead of being wrapped up in the magic of my first kiss, I remember wondering if it was supposed to feel so slobbery. Was I doing it wrong? Was there supposed to be more saliva involved on my part? I started imagining a chocolate cake so to make myself salivate more. When we pulled away from each other, I had a wet spot of drool on the front of my shirt and dripping down my neck. Sexy, I know.

But now, it was over. We were over. And so abruptly, too. He had been acting weird just before it happened. Not giving me rides home from school, and barely giving me a peck on the cheek when saying goodnight. I even noticed once as we were walking to class, that he had let go of my hand when the cheerleaders walked by us. They bounced down the halls so high and mighty, their blonde ponytails swinging back and forth with each annoyingly cheery step. I should have seen this coming. I started to cry harder.

My dad walked into my bedroom, knocking very lightly on the door. He had our portable phone in one hand and a post-it note in the other. I didn’t move; my body did not even flinch from the position I was in. He didn’t say a word, but sat down on the foot of my bed. Sighing, I swung my feet around and sat up next to him. My mom was out of town that weekend, and my sister was away at college. I was surrounded by testosterone in a moment where I desperately needed some estrogen. My brother would have been as much help as a gorilla in this situation, so my dad was the only one really present in our house to talk to. He had no idea why I had been crying for three days straight, but I could tell by the wrinkles on his forehead that he was very concerned about the well being of his youngest daughter.

“I just spoke to your mom,” he gestured with the phone, “she is in a seminar right now, but she said you could call her at the hotel anytime you needed to.” He passed me the phone and the post-it with her number scribbled in clean cursive. My dad always had the best handwriting out of all of us. I gently took the phone and paper from him and let them fall into my lap with a soft thud. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting back and forth from looking at me to looking at my white wall in front of him. “You know, you could always talk to me, too.”

It was too much for me to take. My jaw had been clenched, swallowing the knot sitting in my throat. In one loud burp, the sobs escaped and I dropped my forehead onto my dad’s shoulder. My entire body convulsed. Shoulders shaking and trembling, I cried into my dad’s arm. He jumped, completely startled by my outburst, which only made me cry harder. Seconds later, he leaned back into the hug, the bed creaking beneath him. Through the tears, I managed to spurt out some shrill words. “Ian (breath)…..broke (sob)…..up (gulp)……with (sniffle)…….me!” I gasped for breath between each.

I wish I had seen my dad’s face when I revealed why I had been crying for days. To see that combination of relief (that it wasn’t anything more serious), but then sheer terror (at the fact that he was the only one around to console me) would have been priceless.

His hand started patting my back in a foreign way. It felt as though a stranger was tapping my shoulder, asking for directions. His statement to me, words that I can only assume were meant to soothe: “I know that can hurt.”

Thank you, dad.

You have given me many pearls of wisdom over the years. This oyster, however, was empty.

Of course it hurts, dad. Ian and I had been dating almost a year at the time he dumped me. The reason he broke up with me was because he had been seeing someone else. Was it our senior class president? No. Was it a rival school’s popular girl? Nope. Was it our head cheerleader? Wrong again. It was our cheerleading coach. Let me say that again so you clearly understand….

MY 16 YEAR OLD, HIGH SCHOOL BOYFRIEND WAS NOW DATING MY SCHOOL’S CHEERLEADING COACH. She was 31. She was also the choreographer of many musicals I had been in and my dance instructor for the workshop I attended yearly. Yes, she was my aforementioned mentor. They met because of me.

When Ian turned 18 and graduated high school, he and his cheerleading coach (known for many years to my friends and me as Coach Cunt) moved to Florida and got married.

And I spent several years wishing and praying over rosary beads that their marriage would end in a bitter divorce.

In Case You Didn’t Read My Twitter the Other Day…

In Case You Didnt Read My Twitter the Other Day...
I saw Scott Speedman (Ben from Felicity)yesterday at the Energy Kitchen. It took every ounce of my energy to not go up, throw my arms around his neck and stick my tongue in his ear. Instead, I pulled my cell phone out, pretended to be texting and snapped a photo. I think he was onto me. (not to be confused with “into me”)

We also ordered the exact same thing: BBQ Quesadillas with mashed sweet potatoes and carrots.

We are obviously soul mates.

Oh, Hillary

I realize this next statement is going to make me very unpopular, but…

I hate Hillary Clinton.

I know it is not the trendy opinion, especially among women, but I just cannot stand her. I don’t trust her, I don’t like her, and I would never, ever vote for her to be my next president. Which sucks, because I so badly want to see a woman as president—just not her.

And whenever I discuss this with Clinton supporters, the argument I always hear is, “To be a woman making it in a man’s world, you have to be a bitch.” I could not disagree more. What is this telling our children? That you have to be mean, conniving, corrupt and ill-tempered to make a career and name for yourself? That you have to be a bitch to make it to the top? This is a horrible example for today’s youth. I consider myself successful and on the incline and I certainly do not think I am a bitch! I go out of my way to do the right thing—the good thing—the nice thing.

In a world full of “role-models” like Paris Hilton and Anna Nicole Smith, Hillary Clinton is an obvious step up. But there are other women in this world doing amazing things—but who are also genuinely good people. These are the women I someday want my daughters to look up to. Ambassador Carol Moseley Brown, for one. An amazing and dynamic woman with a heart of gold!

What do you think? Do you think that Senator Clinton’s actions and attitude is justified because that’s what is necessary to make it in today’s world?


I wish I could tender my resignation as an adult. While the thought of living through puberty and my first breakup again is enough to have me wincing in pain at the thought… it doesn’t change the fact that I would love to accept the responsibilities of my five-year-old self again.

- I want to go to McDonald’s and consider it an elite restaurant equivalent to a five-star bistro
- I want to sail my Barbies across a fresh mud puddle and have Ken save them from the approaching tidal wave
- I want to stash tokens from arcades in my pockets, thinking that they will someday pay for my college tuition because THEYMUSTBEPUREGOLD!
-I want to climb a big tree and watch the ants follow me up its trunk.
- I want to run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer day, only to drink it all before having any customers
- I want to make decisions based on “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo”
- I want to go fishing and care more about saving the bait than catching the big bass in the lake.
- I want to live at an age where War was a card game
- I want to think that the answer to all of life’s problems lies within my parents arms
- I want to return to a time when the most challenging thing was memorizing my multiplication tables.
- I want to think that a quarter is worth more than a dollar bill because it is shiny and pretty and weighs more.
- I want to be excited by Disney movies again
- I want to believe that a kiss can make the boo-boo disappear

So……here. Take my checkbook, my car keys, my pepper spray, my credit cards, my Roth IRA, my stocks, my collections, my insurance premiums, my job, my apartment and the rent, my bills, my e-mail address, cell phone, laptop, and digital voice recorder. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to talk me out of this—if you want to sit me down and talk to me reasonably and maturely, you’ll have to catch me first

TAG! You’re it!

Website Insanity

I am taking the next step and creating a personal website (which will become my own blog). I am so very excited about it and at the prospect of potentially some day in many years to come making money off of my site (though I know it is years away). Does anyone have any suggestions of personal websites and blog sites I could look at for design ideas?