hey, you should grow a beard.

I love a nice beard more than I love most things. Always have, always will. It is probably my most favorite feature on a man. Oh, God. The bigger and bushier the better, a lot of times. Although these days, I’ll settle for what I can get. There’s a beard for almost every style. That beards are in right now works in my favor. I don’t get girls/women who like the clean-shaven military-style look. Beards are hot, historically speaking. Jesus had a beard. Abraham Lincoln. Aragorn. Let it Be-era Paul McCartney. I’m pretty sure Shakespeare had one. Lots of one-name basis dudes rocked major facial hair. Artists. Poets. Leaders. I Googled “beard porn” the other day. I’m disgusting. But I’m okay with it, as long as you are.

There are maybe three to five men in the entire world who look good and maybe even better clean-shaven. Hayden Christensen for example, should probably never grow a beard. He’s too damn pretty. Chace Crawford looks boyishly adorable when he’s only slightly scruffy. The prettier the boy the weirder a beard looks. I’ve examined my beard-lust scientifically and I hypothesize this: I’m super girly, therefore I have high levels of estrogen (oh do I!) – therefore, I seek a male counterpart with equally high levels of testosterone. Beard = manly and manly = testosterone. The juxtaposition of smooth soft girl skin and coarse man hair works out so well. It’s really the most flawless equation ever.

I love the pride that men take in their beards when they grow them “just for themselves.” What do women have that even rivals that? Take bubble baths? (Yes.) Now I’ve convinced a boyfriend or two to ditch the razor for a week, maybe two. The response they get in return makes it well worth their while, believe me. I’m always really perturbed when guys seem to honestly think that women want them to be smooth and hairless head to toe. No, lads, that’s womankind that’s been dealt the miserable hand of full-body hair removal. You go on, be hairy. The hairier the better. I’ll make myself a pillow on your chest hair and stroke your beard until I’m lulled softly to sleep. Thank you.


Jersey Shore is ruining my life!

My apartment was burglarized recently (stole my MacBook and iPod…bastards…living, learning and hopefully moving soon). Anyway, my mom let me borrow her laptop, and in the wake of my trauma I discovered that you can stream Jersey Shore on Netflix Instant Watch, one of my favorite things ever. I get addicted to shows easily, particularly ones that are so bad in such a good way. I haven’t had cable in years, but my friends and colleagues with DVRs will frequently compare notes on what happened on Jersey Shore that week. I can only nod and say that I’ll probably get around to watching it in a year or two… and when I do, the experience is intense. So far, it’s been anesthetizing my open emotional wounds of losing years worth of photos and writings, and is consequently knocking points off my IQ with each episode, and impacting my ability to do anything else. Even as I write this blog, Netflix is taunting me in the other tab with a partially-viewed episode of salacious, dare I say–Jerseylicious(!) drama.

I catch myself speaking in a Long Island Italian accent at work, even though I’m from New England and don’t have a trace of Italian in my blood. A customer today asked me where I’m from and I had to just come clean. It’s really hard to control. Snooki’s “wah!” is infectious, as is “t-shirt time” and of course…GTL. It’s been many moons since my ivory skin has seen a tanning bed, but every now and then the bronzed “goddesses” of JH make me go a little thick with the bronzer and crave acrylic nails (also a phase I’m proud to have outgrown).

I have never, ever been the type to go for hard-bodies guido dudes. The fellas on the show are only after one thing of course, but if you happen to not be a “grenade,” you could get some pretty special treatment. The Situation is obviously a sleazeball, but I have a pretty deep soft spot for Vinny and an on going crush on Pauly D and his hair. Why? Only God really knows the answer to that question. Normally I prefer pale skinny rocker boys, softspoken poets or nerdy savants. Maybe Jersey Shore appeals to all our base desires to eat loads of pasta, strap some leopard print over my lady parts, do body shots till 5 in the morning and find an anonymous hard body to “smush.”