{memorias y sueños del helado | memories and dreams of ice cream}

I LOVE louis vuitton's spring / summer 2012 ads!

the simple summer confection of ice cream reminds of the early days when I sang into a hairbrush to Whitney, Mariah, or Ace of Base. that girl I once was soo "ready to dance with somebody," but far too innocent and prudish to "wanna feel the heat with somebody." those days when I constantly used a chair to prop myself up to the freezer just to jack some ice cream for some Tiny Toons snacking appear simpler in retrospective. ice cream to me was getting a scoop of Thrifty's black cherry ice cream after an optometrist appointment or dreaming of getting that awesome ice cream churner that was part of the American Girl's doll accessories for their Victorian character Samantha Parkington. as long as I was entertained and my belly was satisfied, I was a happy camper. rules and restrictions imposed by my parents sheltered me from the stress of deciding amongst so many choices - a dilemma that we're increasingly confronted with today as we grow older. As suggested by Lars von Trier's brilliant sequel to Dogville (2003), Manderlay (2005), sometimes restrictions and lack of choices make situations simpler, thus allowing individuals to be that much closer to attaining their concept of happiness.

ice cream is a sweet and universal comfort food. it quenches your thirst and ends your meal on a sweet note. even though I've converted my s.o. to the great nummy goodness that is Cold Stone ice cream, Häagen-Dazs ice cream is something that he has always devoured with complete satisfaction when he was a little boy and still does to the point where it's a treat I'd gladly spoil him with - especially to de-stress the fella when all else fails.

this year in comparison to last year's baggage has been considerably drama-less and far more awesome and optimistic. my stress level has been fantastic compared to the year before and I'm so happy that I'm on the right track towards better things and a better me. however, I can't help but still feel bothered by the most trivial things that occurred to me.

for example, I simply can't understand why some random latina mother wearing some nurse scrubs and walking around with two kids could cuss the hell out of me for calmly telling her that the office is closed and that I need to go pee ("you didn't answer my question! don't you walk away from me! you're fucking rude!...." etc.). if the office is closed and unless you want me to piss on your feet, I have absolutely no obligation to help you, you rude bitch who obviously shouldn't even be in the nursing program if you can't even fucking read a freaking sign that says we're closed. I walk out of my office just to go pee and random shit happens. go figure.

it's trivial occurrences like that which really isn't exactly that big a deal and shouldn't affect me that much that makes me worry and want to take action against an outlook/lifestyle of doom and being called a grumpy old bitch in the future. I've been meaning to do this for a long time - to more consciously and actively train myself to be happier, healthier, and better - and I know I'm super busy and tired from working full-time and also working on getting my master's in Library and Information Science - but heck, if I use anything as an excuse, I'll never get to where I want to be and who I want to become.

so I started jotting down notes on things I want to work on and potential outcomes I want to reach. I'm hoping to use Gretchen Rubin's The Happiness Project and SARK as guides to give me tips on what worked well for some people. I got the ball rolling on this life changing objective - so let's hope that Operation Sassica Metamorphosis would glitter with success at the end of 'oh twelve. wish me luck - and some major self-discipline!

- besitos -
{lady sassica}

{santa’s little helper, or the mad stalking elf who couldn’t measure up}

back in the days of odd french drunk dials, I was asked if “quality or quantity” mattered more in regards to that frisky thing called sex. my instinctive and immediate response to this fella with an awful drunken stupor was that quality is far more superior than quantity. Contrary to the idea that “size doesn’t matter,” if men actually lacked any skill at providing a most awesome and memorable experience in the sack, “quantity” – the length and girth of a man’s equipment – absolutely matters.

in a logical equation, this concept would amount to:

                QL = quality

                QT = quantity

                QL > QT

                ¬ QL → QT

                however, if there is no “quality,” then there must be “quantity.”

               ¬ QL  ∩  ¬ QT → :0(

therefore if there is neither “quality” nor “quantity,” then the end result is an awful sexual episode that no one hopes to experience or remember.

earplug penis!

this brings me to first hand proof that length and girth does matter when there is a lack of any sexual technique or skill. my poor friend – let’s call her lady pobrecita – met up with an man who advertised his height a whole two inches taller than his actual height on an online dating website. lady pobrecita has been having a pretty damn steamy sext exchange with this fella. he basically told her that he wanted a friends-with-benefit (fwb) type of sitch. normally ms. friend of mine would want to get to know a guy after a couple of dates prior to any frisky business; however, she is recovering from a hell of a man who’s now in search of owls in the woods (no joke) – so it is warranted for her to disregard her personal protocol just this once.

the steamy sexting has got this gal all hot and bothered and she definitely was curious about meeting this guy – so she met him, talked to him to make sure he wasn’t crazy, and then did the awful deed. It was the most anticlimactic bedding ever. It is one thing to be able to talk up a storm via text, but it is entirely another thing if the fella wasn’t able to walk the walk. not only was he not able to walk that walk, but he also turned out to be a short little elf would couldn’t measure up. if he had any sexual technique, the sitch for lady pobrecita would’ve been a little less awkward and little more pleasant; but he had no technique whatsoever. his man-knob was exceptionally small, and he didn’t seem to be aware of this. the poor girl had to bare the whole shouty business of “you want more of this?!” of course, she wanted more – a whole lot more than you can give her, buddy.

enter, doorknob

source

this goes to say that even though this sexperience was good for the tiny little elf, lady pobrecita had a very good reason to have a few well-deserved drinks with me the following night. poor thing received two consecutive texts of “hi” followed by a longer “hey” from this stalking little elf during our girls’ night out. be careful, lady p. let the oblivious dude down gently – you never know if santa’s little helper is a closeted scary pygmy. he’s not Hedwig, but he certainly has an angry inch.

- hugs 'n strongbow cider for lady pobrecita -

{ lady sassica }

{sweet may 16th | the emancipation of lady sassica}

 

{if you see a giant space of white above,

then your apple device doesn't have flash}