Cowgirl In The City

• Black and White Photography
• MOMA
• Tom Robbins
• Vince Vaughan
• The History Channel
• Keeping Up With The Kardashian
• Football
• Bone Thugs N’ Harmony
• Dancing
• Jack Kerouac
• Puppies
• Playgrounds
• S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night!
• Derek Jeter
• Californication
• Ballet flats
• Tumblr
• Velvet Underground
• Rachel Bilson
• Ebay
• PB & J
• Vintage everything
• Britney Spears
• Crossword puzzles
• Journey
• Neiman Marcus
• Gossip Girls
• Alice and Olivia
• Short stories
• Running
• Lady Bugs
• Billy Joel
• People who smile a lot

“You’re so lucky you go to school in New York City,” they’ll say while I beat my head back and forth in agreement with a half-sincere smile on my face. Don’t get me wrong I absolutely adore New York City. Each day I go out into the New York City streets gazing at the wildlife with fresh curiosity and relentless pride. I cherish 5th Avenue’s retail grandeur, and enjoy cultural quests to museums and parks. The endless parade of quirky fashions and ethnic jamboree. It’s overly priced but always fabulous festivities.

The only problem is that as a full time NYU student with an internship, a compulsive gym habit, and a party-hardy reputation to life up to, during the school year I never get a chance to play in the city(This? Is Not The Life I Ordered talks about going through the same sort of situation.) That’s why during this past vacation back to New York I made it a point to rest little and roam freely. To be honest I spent most of my free time shopping and have a negative balance in my battered bank account to prove it. Once my Letterman anxieties had vanished, I was free to aimlessly wander throughout the city for four carefree days.

The shopping binge began immediately as I headed up town to the Betsey Johnson Sample Sale. It was a  tumultuous whirlwind of frilly laces and flowery patterns, in the hands of bargain hungry women—a little girls dreams thrown into a blender and spit back out. The leopard print, 80’s prom dress spectacular held 75% off Betsey Johnson dresses in teeny tiny size 2’s. i walked off with two precious dresses for a fraction of the hefty retail price and probably would have left with one of everything had I not had a budget to stick to.

Throughout a span of several days i visited my favorite consignment shop Tokio 7 in the East Village, coming out with a cheap Alice and Olivia shirt, and bought a wardrobe’s worth of dresses and shirts from H & M, Forever 21, Zara, and Bloomingdales. Since almost all of my money went to shopping, I ate very little (or let boys pay) so that I could afford beer. Yes, it’s shamefully true that the typical college student spends more on alcohol than on food.  I’d planned on visiting museums and sight seeing, but with distorted priorities, chose Happy Hour instead.

However, there were some unanticipated events in hand for me, such as several verbal brawls of epic proportion with The NYU Wrastler. Most of these quarrels, as usual, stem from my immaturity and game-playing  antics which don’t settle very well this one. We spent two nights engaged in belligerent argument which put a damper on my celebratory fun and left a bad aftertaste on the entire experience.

When I wasn’t tangled in fights with the Wrestler or busy making serious dents in my finances, I was enjoying myself in ways I hadn’t intended but definitely needed. I got soo much sleep for one. With the intense  party regime back in Oklahoma I hadn’t spent much time hibernating like every college student should in the summer time. With most of my friends working 9 to 5 o’clock(and me for once being the part-time loner) I barely get to see any of them outside our drinking headquarters. In NYC I got to spend actual sober time with friends going to movies and out for meals. I’d forgotten that I actually can have fun without liquor. Hooray!

Some other fun things we did in NYC:

• South Street Seaport
• Saw The Waterfalls
• Saw the movie Wanted
• Caught up on my sports
• Met a lot of new people
• Hooked up with a hot new boy
• Got sooo many cute dresses
• Went to the Public Library(one of my favorite places ever)

Now that the surplus of money in my bank account has mysteriously disappeared and I’ve somewhat satisfied my wanderlust, it’s back to work for me. Not too much work however, not too much play. It all comes down to finding that perfect balance in life.

The celeb gossip circuit is awhirl today with juicy allegations claiming Madonna and Alex Rodriguez might be more than just friends. Supposedly Rodriguez has made several late night visits over to Madonna’s Manhattan apartment according to The Superficial and other sources. But let’s get to the real juicy stuff. Although Madonna and Guy Ritchie are undergoing the divorce process she is still married. Yankees third baseman and mighty man Alex Rodriguez is married to Cynthia Rodriguez and the father to two small kids.

I’m an avid Yankees fan and I love Madonna…but what the shit? There’s something very wrong with all this.

I spent the past six days roaming around the frenzied streets of New York City with two goals in mind:

1. Nail the interview for the Late Show with David Letterman and 

2. Shop with passionate intensity.

I did both with energy and zest and, in the end accomplished everything i’d intended too.

A flurry of giddy thoughts sank into the trenches of my mind and with a tipsy grin on my half-numb face, I looked out of my airplane window with a virgin’s sense of marvel. And no it wasn’t the array of alcoholic beverages i’d consumed in the airport and on the airplane that got me all blissful like. Despite the airline hullabaloo throughout the day, I arrived at JFK drunk with curious wonder and a sense of bliss. I quickly made it to the Baggage Claim, gathered my black suitcase, and managed to survive the long taxi line that winded around the airport.

Although I’d only left New York a month and a half ago, I inhaled the city sights with such ferocity and wonder that you’d think that i’d just escaped lifelong entrapment and had laid eyes on Mother Nature’s masterpiece for the very first time.  How delightful the slums! How pristine and splendid I’d made Queens out to be.

The cluttered bridges, the taxi-filled Lower East Side streets, and the flashing middle fingers exchanged from driver to driver, how peaceful and serene the city seemed. America’s very own Xanadu.

Broken from my mesmerized trance by my taxi driver’s harsh bark, I realized i’d finally arrived at my old stomping grounds, the NYU chinatown dorm. Oblivious to the pile of hobos planted next to the door and its splendid location next to a homeless shelter and juvenile delinquency center, I ranted and raved over my lovely whereabouts  just after generously ttipping my jackass cab driver 10 bucks on a 35 dollar fare. I called down NYU wrastler to come get me. NYU wrastler is a sincere, tall dark, muscular boy who just happened to be an R.A. (Resident’s Assistant?) at my dorm this past year. Despite the illegality of  the whole R.A.- student thing, we’ve been talking since October. After jumping into his swollen, hard as a rock embrace and getting signed into the building, we caught up and ….. fell asleep? (my mom reads this!) 

Anyways…

The next day was The Big Day, the main reason I’d ventured to New York, sacrificed a week’s worth of pay,  and spent a day of mayhem at the airport. The Letterman interview. As a little girl smitten for Letterman I remember feigning sleep and sneaking out past my bedtime so that I could watch my beloved on the Late Show.  At that age, had Letterman been featured in teeny bopper issues of J13 I’d have covered my walls with a Letterman shrine. (Instead Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Brad Renfro it was.) I’ve always loved the show. So just having the opportunity to even be considered as an intern for the Late Show was something to boast about. 

This past Tuesday, still somewhat raveled in sweet slumber, I managed to wake up a couple of hours early and hit the cold shower. I ate The breakfast of champs—a cupcake and chocalate pudding—slipped into my long sleeved knee length, conservative but contemporary dress that I’d meticulously chosen a week in advance, dabbed on my makeup, and hit the ground running 45 minutes early.The fact that this morning took off with charming ease made me a little scared considering I’d strolled into my last two successful internship interviews 30 minutes late, while suffocated by a sea of scattered papers and Post It notes, and in the heat of a nervous breakdown. 

My ever-wise mom had given me extra money to take a taxi to the interview but the cheap ass that I am decided to hop on the subway instead. The sweltering heat mixed with my long sleeved dress, not to mention my anxiously haywire mind, caused me to sweat profusely. Even though it took only 5 minutes for the Q train to swing around, I’d convinced myself I’d never see the train’s magical headlights bursting through the dark abyss. Once that thought disintegrated with the subway’s arrival, I foolishly decided not to worry myself with what I’d say or how the interview would go. Instead i spent the fifteen minute subway ride listening to James Brown’s “Sex Machine”  and other happy jingles. I always master the interview it’s the whole getting-there-in-one-piece part that gets me every ime. 

I had one tiny task to complete before my interview: to make it to Kinko’s which was right next door to Ed Sullivan Theater( according to Mapquest) so that I could print out my resume. I frolicked toward 53rd and Broadway with a skip in my step and a bounce in my strut. Except Kinko’s was not in sight. I started to sweat more than ever, so that my icky sweat stains were apparent. I saw doom, with an axe in hand, taunting me in the nearby distance. In a fit of hysterics I dashed around the block, with my eyes zig zagging along the street, from one store to another.  As the commotion whirled through my mind, I looked down at my phone to see that I was already ten minutes late.  Engulfed by a thought frenzy, I finally decided to take my chance and hope that they’d have a copy of my resume. 

With the wasteland of worries that filled my mind and my attempt at coming off cool to the doorman despite my heavy breathing and pit stains, I didn’t even acknowledge the place ‘d dreamed about stepping in all my life.

“Mallory?” the receptionist asked. 

Am I that late? I thought to myself. Oh Lord have mercy. I’m donezo, a gonner, I thought. I sat with my legs beating at a spasmic pace and my fingertips moving like a maddened author’s hand at a typewriter. Someone finally called my name and instinctly I shot up like an  aggravated Pop Tart in a toaster

Upon seeing the  luscious resume in her hands, my worries diminished. I was asked the typical interview questions the “Where ya from?” ” Why the Late Show?” “What are your weaknesses?” ” Why you?” dah dah dah. I responded with charm and ease waiting for the big whammy question,  the out of the ballpark sucker punch that would throw me off balance, I mean really throw me into mental chaos, not knowing how to respond or what to say.  

“Well you’re done with me” she said. 

That was it?  I couldn’t believe it. No way.  silently I did a victory dance like the one i’d performed on the Teeball field when I’d score a run. Stir the beans, stir the beans sprinkler, sprinkler. A victory dance like nothing Terrell Owens’ could top.

“Alright now you’ll be moving on to all the others. There’s about seven of us that;ll be drilling you today. Leave your purse here hun’ you’re gonna be here for a while.”

After seven intensive interviews and a tiring, not-so-fun game of musical chairs jumping from office to office and floor to floor, it was finally coming to an end. I had gradually become more and more lethargic and was ready to get the hell out of there. After a grand finale of a handshake, I was suddenly bitten by a spark of energy. I put on my poker face even though intuitively I thought I got it and really wanted to scream and shout. I eagerly waited  for an email revealing my fate for this coveted internship. I tried to distract myself shopping but couldn’t stop thinking about the internship.

 A couple of days later i got the glorious email announcing my dreams had come true. Letterman here I come!

• James Brown
• Cowboy hats
• My Macbook
• Parks
• Boys with big muscles
• John Steinbeck
• The Dallas Cowboys
• Reservoir Dogs
• Carrie Underwood
• The Yankees
• Jeff Goldblum
• David Beckham
• Clutches
• Sex and the City
• Rollercoasters
• Quirky people
• E!
• Colored markers or pens
• Summer dresses
• Flirting
• Target
• Red Stripe
• Oklahoma
• Borat
• Funk music

(Vintage Vinyl Revival)

Throughout my mostly sun-shiney twenty years of living, I’ve had far too many run-ins with Bullies than I’d like to think i deserved. No I’m not talking about the glasses-stomping, locker-stuffing playground chumps that are typically portrayed as bullies.  The Bullies that I’ve constantly had to deal with are equally vicious and dreadful. But my Bully is blonde and female, and she’s sweet as cherry pie to everyone but your’s truly.

Why me? Maybe it’s because I like to play with the boys or because I’m confident. Though women aren’t typically as physically aggressive as your quintessential, macho-man bully, they’re every bit as savage, brutal, and destructive. Girl bullies use words instead of physical jabs, and most of the time battle scars or wounds can heal a lot faster than an emotionally-battered self-esteem. 

Lets start from the colorful days back in my first grade classroom when Aubrey,a blond haired girl with big bulging blue eyes, and toothpick sized mile long legs, took it upon herself to humiliate me, the tiny, tan new girl in class. I had that whole new girl allure about me, which won the attention of a classmate or two. I spent years tangled in her playground vendetta, constantly left out of sleepovers and games of hide-and-go-seek until sometime around 3rd grade when boys and girls realized they had minds of their own.

After hitting a growth spurt and finally winning the class’s respect, Aubrey eventually surrendered her attempts at sabotage and later became my best friend. Later the tables turned and hot-off-the-press rumors accused Aubrey of being a dike .But I’ll always remember those hell-filled days of plaid jumpers and chocolate milk fridays, and blame  those three glum years of fear and sadness to that one devil in sketchers.

In middle school I gained a newfound sense of confidence, a set of chest-level, basketball-shaped assets, and an older, off-limits cutie-pie of a boyfriend.(Dating older boys just wasn’t accepted) Because of this all, a hungry band of 7th grade hell-rakers set out to obliterate both my reputation and my esteem.

Daily on our hike to chapel at 9:30 in the morning next to the brown, smelly lake on our 80-acre campus, four or five giggling blonde girls would trail behind my friends and I, who nervously linked arms as we sensed the 6th grade stalkers prowling behind us in a mischievous tip-toe rhythm. They’d “accidently” step on the back of my Jack Purcell shoes, bruising both my poor little heels and my withering sense of  confidence. Most of them came back from college having gained so much weight you’d think they’d swallowed hot air balloons.

I’d later become familiar with another type of Bully: The Work Bully. I’ve encountered one Work Bully per summer while working at restaurants the past three years. In each case the malicious Bully is  bigger, blonde, and endowed with a set of envious eyes. The first evil bitch was around 35 years old and had a ferocious glare that closely followed me from day one as I fluttered from table to table. Aware of her Jack-the-Ripper-of a stare, any time she lingered in a close distance my typically outgoing self was suddenly tongue tied as if she possessed some sort of magical power over me which kidnapped my confidence and made me feel like a braces-wearing, overweight freshman at the Spring Fling. On the rare occasion that she wasn’t at work, there was a vibrance about me, a giddiness in my step, a gleam in my smile, and a spark in my eyes.

The next work bitch was equally blonde, but much more of an attention-craving whore. This was the summer after my first year of college when I’d gotten used to the jealous dumb bitch girl stare. NYU, no offense, might breed fine artists and filmmakers, but it’s definitely not a babe magnet school like Florida State University or the California colleges. And even though the school is 70% females, most of them are bland east coast girls that take themselves and their school work way too seriously. So as a petite girl with a country accent and a lot of energy,that freshman year in college I got gorgeous guys like crazy while the rest of the girls glared away.

Anyways back to the second girl. The contemptuous look, no biggy I was plenty familiar with that ill-willed and unjustly-arroused face. But this femme fatale, took it up a notch,  succumbing to belittling remarks and restaurant rumors. I was aware of her blatantly diabolic and childishly shrewd attack, but she knew how to whip and stab and wound. Every day I regretted not calling in sick the moment I’d walk in through the back door of Pearls and hear the clamorous eruption of shrieks and yelps coming from her loud-mouthed banter. When a flock of boys circled around me, there she was with a pathetically outrageous verbal scam, a falsely advertised happening party she’d heard about or some juicy gossip she’d contrived, in order to stealthily allure an eye or two in her direction. Despite her sneaky series of  sucker punches,  in the end I got more boys and better tips.

And now it looks as if yet another Work Bully is on the prowl.I’ve seen this Bully’s typical tough-stuff glances, heard the muffled gossip, and all, but when she saw that I was perched on her work-crush’s lap this past Friday, she glanced at me with a slightly trembling lip and a fierce look of vengeance beaming from her eyes; it was a look that would make a sissy out of the boogyman himself.  Silently she declared war, and I was the targeted bulls-eye. In the heat of an impassioned temper tantrum, she stormed off  like a raging tempest with its panties in a twist.  I haven’t seen her yet, thank God, and I’m off to New York this week , but let’s just hope I can survive another Work Bully.

The following is a lovely list of things I love:

• Nicole Richie
• Bright red lipstick
• Swingers
• Curb Your Enthusiasm
• Bloomingdales
• Angelina Jolie
• Bob Marley
• The gym
• “Lolita”
• ESPN
• Wu Tang Clan
• Journals
• Chanel
• Joyce Carol Oates
• Cuervo
• OU Sooners
• Anthropologie
• 80’s music
• Party hats
• Betsey Johnson
• Pizza
• NYC
• Themed parties
• Bruce Springsteen
• My hot friends

The AFI has just listed the top ten films of all time in ten different genres. The genres include Animation, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Western, Sports, Romantic Comedy, Mystery, Courtroom Drama, Epic, and last but not least Gangster.

Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up around a flock of boys or because I live in a place where football-worship is the true religion, but out of all the genres on the list my two favorite are Gangster and Sports. I’ve never been into your typical girly, romantic films. Forget The Notebook or When Harry Met Sally. Try to pop one of these romance films in the DVD player and I’ll be lulled to sleep so quickly you’d think I’d overdosed on Dramamine. But give me action, adventure, and sexy men in tight football pants, and I’ll be tossed into a rhapsodic bliss.

Three of my all time favorite movies made it to the top ten lists: Pulp Fiction(7th Best Gangster Movie), Scarface(#10 Gangster) and Jerry Maguire(#10 Sports). “You like Scarface?” boys will ask with a spark of curiosity on their face as they scan through the slim stack of movies on my bookcase shelf.Sure, I’m a petite 5′2, get weekly manicures, and wear high heels everyday. But when it comes to movies, I like em action-packed and badass— full of manliness, bulging biceps, guts, glory, and blood.

Other Gangster films on the Top 10 list I like are: The Godfather, Goodfellas, The Godfather Part II, and Bonnie and Clyde. Some of the films from the Top 10 Sports Movies category that I really like include Bull Durham, and Caddyshack.

Oprah’s doing it, The ex-Mayor of New York’s doing it, Carrie Bradshaw did it, even the beloved President of the United States was caught in the act. These days infidelity is less of a taboo and more of a commonplace, everyday kind-of-shenanigan. So why all the hanky panky? Maybe everyone’s just looking for fun after all.

I’ve never been monogamously inclined. Call my tendencies playerific, man-eating, slutty, self-conscious or whatever you like, but i think of my mancapades as being more exemplary of my intense case of A.D.D. When a new love interest first walks into your life, flailing sparks burst in the air, an endless smile smothers your face, and a luscious band of butterflies are set aflutter in the pit of your stomach.

For that first week or so not yet familiar with each others flaws or bad habits, it’s easy to fall head over heels for someone. While chemistry explodes like firecrackers between two love birds in the first round of a relationship, the going eventually starts to get tough. Upon first meeting someone and getting to know them, you get as excited as a lovestruck kindergardener. You picture your future together, the dates, the romance, you even hear the wedding bell’s ring. Its almost like spring break. A week or two free from trouble and worries, while amassed in coat of giddy happiness.

But just as Spring Break must tragically come to an end, so too must the the cutesy wootesy parade of hugs and kisses, kind gestures and lots of laughter. If the fun of it all(this whole love ordeal) didn’t stop, I’d probably become a one-woman-kind-of-gal.

But medically-treated for my quick-fleeting attention span, my problem with monogamy’s that I just get too damn bored Right when it starts loosing it’s flavor and falling into the stale pattern of monotony, when I start to become sick and tired of the same man, same dates, and same experiences, I throw up my hands and surrender, calling it quits long before too much emotion and time are invested into the coulda-been relationship.

Of course i’m far too cowardly to openly admit to a boy-toy that I’ve moved on or I want out of the relationship. I’ll simply quit answering their phone calls, dodge them at all costs, and quckly after embark upon yet another short-lasting love fest, while the poor boy’s left scratching his head. I’m a love vagabond, breaking hearts in order to guard my own and having fun while it lasts.

However, true love revolves around keeping that excitement up and revving like a sports car on a highway. It takes two committed love fools, an ideal backdrop, and a bundle of time to maintain that sugary-sweet and relentlessly charmed stage of love.

i did fall in love one time. It was exhilarating and magical, like something out of a picture book fairy tale really. We didn’t go on fabulous dates or publically showcase our affection to the point of disgust like most fools in love, but it was there and very well apparent, and more than anything it was fun. But that reserves a whole other post of it’s own, so I’ll save all that mushy, tragic business for the next time around.