hopefully it won't end up in britney's next weave.

since coming into this world kicking, screaming and covered in amniotic goo nearly a quarter century ago, i have been called many a name. i know for a fact that the bulk of you are flashing on a nickname or two as you read these words but honestly, "sexy lexy" barely scratches the surface.

the first was "furry," as i was born with enough fringe that my own mother mistook me for a small labrador, thus forcing her to recount the events of the night of my conception with painstaking detail. "cutthroat" came next, the adjective of choice from my preschool teachers each time my parents were called in to discuss why i felt it necessary to bodyslam any student that dared to cut in front of me in the lunch/recess/bathroom line. it's hard to pinpoint the first occurrence of "hellion" but the time cousin nick and i convinced little mike that the bowl of mayonnaise on the condiment table at the family barbecue was vanilla pudding is a pretty good guess. "potty-mouth" is a bit more difficult, however, as i was most likely a sailor or truck driver in a past life and that shit (there i go again) is ingrained in my dna. guess i'm just the bad seed your parents warned you about, minus the motorcycle, five o'clock shadow and pocket full of roofies.

truth be told, i don't strive to be a crappy person. i have never been one to kick puppies or pick off pigeons with a slingshot. while my taste for red meat will never be fully curbed, the thought of wearing fur - real or faux - kinda creeps me out (not to mention makes me feel a little prostitutey). for godsakes, i even get mad when i see parents putting their kids on leashes..and i fucking HATE kids. see, friends, i'm not a total asshole. despite that affirmation, i needed to prove to myself that i was indeed capable of being truly selfless. how so, you ask? in the form of follicles.

aside from an asymmetrical dorothy hamill in grade three and an equally ill-advised pixie cut in grade four, i have always had long, brown locks flowing from my scalp. sleek and shiny, my hair resembled those obnoxiously perfect, light-reflecting strands blown about by a wind machine in every pantene commercial ever made. now? still ad-worthy..but more so in a mussed, choppy bedhead sort of way. not a posh spice/katie holmes love child 'do or a get the carpool to soccer practice before whipping up a three-course meal coif..just a lex looks freakin' sweet bob, as 10 inches of chocolate-colored locks are now in a padded envelope on their way to florida to become part of a wig for a child with cancer. stylish and sensitive? yes, i do exist and no i will not make out with you.

..i may look cute but waking up an extra 20 minutes early to fight with my blowdryer is so not cool,
lex

doopity doo.

at first glance, many have struggled to pinpoint my nationality. with my almond-shaped eyes, olive complexion and eyebrows rivaling those of peter gallagher (no worries..i don't share his love for show tunes), i have heard everything from spanish to lebanese to thai. however, once a few choice four-letter words escape from my lips or it's revealed that my weapon of choice is not a .44 or prison-issue shank but a shoe, my secret is revealed: i am so italian, my last name may as well be corleone. i'll take the cannoli every damn time.

since my people are known as much for their ability to tan as much as they are for their tiramisu, it may seem a bit precarious that i would seek out a bronzing from a bottle or booth but let me explain: 1. i'm in chicago in the middle of one of its infamous cold-as-fuck winters; 2. my ability to get time off to venture to an exotic locale is downright laughable and 3. my friend sam convinced me it was a great idea. said friendship is currently under review.

i knew the error of my ways the moment i walked into the salon and my nostrils were filled with the aroma of coconuts and burnt flesh. the face of the gal behind the counter resembled the shade of a mixed citrus smoothie. the classy establishment was named after a land filled with fake tits and even faker personalities. still, if two minutes standing ass-naked in an icy blue box getting sprayed with a concoction of god only knows what would rid me of the winter blahs, i was so freaking there. unfortunately, now i could be mistaken for the help at willie wonka's factory.

my sister, a true fake-and-bake junkie by the age of 13, was horrified when i told her the news. "what are you, retarded?" she said when i revealed my faux pas. "spray tanning is for the micks..respect your roots, ho!" ah, to be 17 and obnoxiously politically incorrect again! mini-me then proceeded - for the next eternity or so - to dispense the rationale her tried-and-true regimen of how she keeps her pelt resembling a balenciaga bag. though i nodded off sometime between exfoliation and moisturization, i know one thing for certain: i will never treat my body as a paint-by-number again.

..ask me which way to the fizzy lifting drinks and i'll punch you in the mouth in front of your friends,
lex

oh yeah..hi.

in tvland, they call it a hiatus. horticulturists refer to it as dormancy. pseudo-professors say it's a sabbatical. yogi and boo boo know it as hibernation. i am neither a sitcom star with a paparazzi problem, nor rocking a green thumb and magenta crocs. my passport is nonexistent, as is my furry underbelly and penchant for bow-ties and picnic baskets. well, i guess that last one depends on the menu..i have always been a sucker for potato salad.

since my last entry, a whopping three (that's tres for our spanish speaking friends) years ago, i have sat down countless times before this very screen with every intention of updating the next chapter in the saga that is my life. each venture started strong but quickly weakened, much like a jager-fueled potential hook-up who slurs sweet nothings in your ear and a trail of sloppy smooches on your neck but ultimately ends up passed out on your bathroom floor sporting a liquor dick and flailing about in a pool of what not long ago was lining his stomach. essentially, what once seemed like a good idea began looking pretty craptastic and i elected to shut the door and make with the sleepies instead of cleaning up the lackluster word vomit that would likely ensue.

"ok lex," you say. "enough with the wordsmithery." "fine," i reply, outwardly dejected but inwardly plotting your imminent and untimely end. "onward we go."

try as i may to suppress it, i find myself drawn back to this site every now and again (which i now need a google id to log into..like i need another password to remember) and think about the long, late hours i spent toiling away on it for the better part of two years. there were some high points (see: the cool girl complex and misadventures in molding young minds), the low points (see: excuses for lack of entries and shoutouts to people i no longer consider friends) and everything in between (see: everything in between)..each one holding a special place in the hole where my heart should be. as i review my old entries, laughing at some and cringing at others, i feel two things: amazed at the body of work before me and utterly disgusted that i have gone so long without adding to it.

don't think of this as a new year's resolution, as those are for fatties, uglies and - let's face it - quitters. being none of those things, take this entry as anything you like..save for a marriage proposal, admission of guilt in a punishable crime or that i even know who you are. oh stop whining..you know you love the thrill of the chase.

..definitely not the end,
lex

nice pixels..wanna fuck?

before y'all begin pelting me with hard, jagged objects and shooting dirty looks in my general direction with the precision and accuracy of a vietnam vet in his heyday, give me a paragraph or so to explain my phantom-like status since august 15th. hold up..i see you with the ninja star in hand. we will all have our turn. just wait for yours. atta boy.
i'm not a big fan of lying. fibbing, maybe. misleading, perhaps. embellishing, only when it's necessary for the sake of the children. nonetheless, here goes. when i first entered this fine institution way back in 2001, my parents and i went shopping for computers. i was all about the laptop, going from display model to display model fidgeting with each computer's amenities. my parents, however, winced at the thought, citing more than one example of my chronic absent-mindedness to back up their notion that i would lose this pricey piece of machinery within a fortnight. "get the desktop!" they said in cult-like unison. "just look at how much more memory it has..and there's no way you could leave it anywhere where someone could take it." i didn't want to burst their broke-college-kids-are-indeed-moral-and-wouldn't-steal-electronics-to-afford-books-and-or-drugs notion, but when i pictured myself tippy-tapping out a paper in the wee hours of the morning hopped up on red bull and pixie stix, i just couldn't forsee my academic career advancing sitting before a device weighing more than i did. so i held fast, presented my argument, pouted a bit, and left the store with a sony viao notebook. who wins? do you even have to ask?

though i promised my mother that i would shut down and lock up my new toy whenever i exited my dorm room, i decided that putting up a snarky away message alluding to my whereabouts was a lot more adventageous than not pissing away her and my father's dinero. caped crusaders never did run off with my compy, and the viao has served me better than those b2k baby-thugs ever dreamed. while all those fools with hps and compaqs were crying over their fried motherboards and virus-infested pop-ups, the viao was like a well-behaved lapdog, minus the annoying yipping and pooping in handbags. each assignment saved without backtalk, advertisments were minimal, connection speed untouchable. could a desktop do that? maybe..but my friends were too busy kicking and cursing theirs to see if it was possible.

everything was kosher til, in the middle of typing a paper for gender and sexuality worth 40 percent of my grade that was due in less than 8 hours, the words on my monitor began to dance. a waltz this was not, but more like an extacy-induced writhing displayed primarily by rave kids sucking pacifiers and twirling glowsticks. i screamed, hit save repeatedly..first to the hard drive and then to disk, screamed some more, and watched in horror as the screen went from hi-def to no-def. zip. zilch. black as the night itself. i calmly got up from my chair and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed, but even my clean and clear couldn't wipe the disbelief from my face. i had been betrayed by more two-faced hizzos and unfaithful boyfriends countless times, but this was a different kind of bond. it was deeper. it was meaningful. it was going to be fucking expensive to repair.

luckily i was able to complete my paper the next morning at work, but i still couldn't shake the proverbial slap in the face i received from the viao. when i arrived home, there it sat on my desk, cold and motionless, like an oyster stubbornly refusing to relinquish custody of its treasured pearl. i called the parentals with my tale of woe, and after mooching off my roommates' equipment for the next few excruciatingly long days, i packed it up and in and headed home, where i became the proud mama of a sweet-ass samsung flat-panel to get me through the rest of the year. it was on that fateful trip, however, that i left a disk containing quite a few blog entries on my nightstand. though this was in early october and i have been home subsequent times since then, that godbefrigged disk always seems to allude my "remember to bring this crap back to school" list. i swear the thing's even jumped out of my backpack twice. clearly, this is not my fault. technology is a bitch.

so there you have it, the very much roundabout explanation for the lack of hahas, teehees, and countless i totally know how you feels for these past few months. try to find it in your blackened hearts to forgive. you can start throwing stuff now if there's an i.o.u. where your soul should be. helmet, on.

..soooOOOOOO glad that's off my non-existant chest,
lex

make sure you wipe that down, mmkay?

i'll be the first to admit it: i am one of the biggest spazzoids i know. whether i am tearing through residential neighborhoods at excessive speeds, hauling ass down the crowded sidewalks of boston to make it to work on time, or struggling to keep my keep it together whilst living at home this summer, my sanity always has one foot out the door. i know it's just waiting for the perfect moment to peace out on me, rendering me a sobbing, twitching mess for the public's scrutinizing eye to fall upon and judge the shit out of. god only knows what my fate would be if i drank coffee.

after about a month of schlubbing around the house, i decided that i needed to do something about my far-from-normal state of mind. i enlisted my good friend and fellow shaws alum jeff to plunk down the plastic and join a nearby gym. i figured that a few days a week sweating to (and with, as the case so often was) the oldies would be just what i needed to stabilize and eliminate my all too frequent brainfarts. also, the protrusion of my gut was starting to rival that of my chest. and while the size of my funbags aren't something to brag about, the fact that my six-pack from days of yore had vanished irritated me like the impending hanson comeback. yeah..mmmbop this.

it wasn't until halfway through the second week of my workout regime that i realized that my gym offered (gasp!) free-of-charge yoga classes in addition to the plethora of ellipticals and free weights housed within its walls. though i am a big fan of pilates, i had always been skeptical of its equally flexible cousin. i didn't want to turn into a tree-hugging, granola-eating, peace-and-love, i-don't-believe-in-razors kinda lady..but the thought of an entire hour of solitude and potential incense burning appealed to my frazzled nerves. armed with my squishy pink mat and icy poland springs, i semi-openmindedly entered the studio.

the next thing i knew, i was downward-facing doging all over the place (your mind = in the gutter..get it out..pronto). i was all about the warrior 2 and was known to rock out a pretty nasty reverse triangle at a moment's notice. this curious venture soon became a mini-obsession. if i didn't harness my chi at least three times a week, i just didn't feel right. it didn't matter if i was sun salutationing, bridge-posing, or attempting the nearly impossible crane, the artist formerly known as my strung-out self had become just another one-hit wonder instead of multi-platinum legend hall of fame inductee. after a semester of more downs than ups and questions than answers, i felt more like myself than i think i ever have. plus, how many people do you know that can put both feet behind their head without needing medical assistance to reverse the same action? think about it and report back. i'll wait.

now as i sit here, munching on a nature's valley and contemplating how i can help the starving orphans in calcutta, i am actually embracing the fact that i've become kind of crunchy. key words: kind of. i still step on ants with no fear of karma biting back and hock the occasional flavorless piece of gum out the window. i can't curb my potty mouth and don't always bless people when they sneeze. i also can't bear much more than a quarter inch of stubble. regardless of those trivial diffs, i think we can all agree on one thing: my ass looks great in yoga pants. ch-check it out. ok, enough..no need to leer.

..namaste..or whatever,
lex

suck it, corporate america.

have you ever had one of those mornings (or afternoons..depending on how much you heart the sleepies) that you roll out of bed, wipe the gunk out of your eyes, pull back the blinds and say to yourself, "sweet sassy molassey, self! today looks absolutely DELICIOUS!" this evaluation signals immediate gussying (or hussying in some cases..you know who you are) up into your favorite warm weather garb for a day of fun and sun. however, for most of us corporate whores, those days are limited. our hectic schedules of office bitchery force us only to revel in the few precious moments of freedom we have going to and coming from the office and on the occasional extended lunch hour. revel with me, won't you?

as i teeter back and forth on the cusp of adulthood, i realize i enjoy these too-few moments waaaaaaaaay the hell more than anything so much harboring a shred of responsibility. while i do fancy ordering myself a drink during a meal and being able to verify my age via non-fake id, sometimes i almost have to stop myself from requesting a chocolate milk so i can blow bubbles through the crazy straw. though i do loathe most children with the fire of a thousand suns, i am still but a child at heart (and size), making going to work on those perfect summer days a cruel and unusual punishment. chinese water torture? sure. the rack? bring it on. desk work on a 90-degree, cloudless day? i would rather kiss a toilet seat.

i try to maximize my non-worky time, opting to truck it from state to congress street instead of switching trains to the uberclose south station. armed with my flip-flops, tousled beachy curls and stylin' shades, i am the portrait of summer..until i set foot inside 286 where i promptly lose a tit as a result of the frigid central air. seeing as though it is indeed august and i have no short-term memory so to speak of, i neglect to take any sort of sleeve or other warming device from home. from 9 to 5, my day is spent not inducing skin cancer on a white sand beach, but instead doomed to shivering in my ergonomic chair, hugging my knees to my sharp-as-glass chest until the vents stop spewing winter. with each file i create or document i scan, my patience and sanity begin packing their bags. i look out the window and see tourists passing by in their obnoxious clothing (apparently a prerequisite for both out-of-towners and middle school skanks-in-training), posing for stupid pictures and laughing gaily. it takes every ounce of strength i have not to huzz a paperweight through the glass to be embedded in their carefree craniums. i am so jealous of their freedom that i would willingly don one of their ridiculous ensembles just to be released from the clutches of my corporate captors.

im trying my best not to get off on a tangent here..so bear with me. you might learn something, tangent-laden or otherwise.

one of my favorite quotes of all time comes from the shawshank redemption. though the subject matter of the film does lack the ha-has i usually crave from my cinema experience, my life is summed up perfectly by red when muses, "some birds aren't meant to be caged..their feathers are just too bright." not only does it explain my string of failed relationships and penchant for not-so-subtle attire, but it pegs exactly where my priorities lie professionwise. i just can't do the office thing. give me my laptop, a lounge chair, and some spf 15 (for safety's sake!) over an overzealous supervisor and timed bathroom breaks any day. though the comp may procure some interesting tan lines, it's something i'm willing to look past if it rids my flesh of its current ghostly hue and my mind of its current state of blah.

unlike some people i know, i do not have my life after college perfectly mapped out. after strutting across the stage in my blue and white next may, what lies ahead is hazy..but by no means bleak. i have found something that i am good at in writing. it's my own personal piece of flair that i wear with pride instead of by force and threats from the management. while it is something that will never make me the kind of cash and security another profession could provide me with, if i did anything else i would be compromising part of who i am. why else would i be sitting here, blatantly disregarding the bossman glaring over my shoulder (ps..hi back there) and the "important" legal task at hand in favor of participating in this brain dump of epic proportions? forget red bull and crystal meth. this is the ish that fuels me. if you don't like it, you're probably already miserable about the path your own life is taking. step away from the desk slowly. you're welcome in advance.

..hoping this next half hour is over quicker than my first awkward sexual encounter,
lex

is that the guy with the old balls?

i know that i am going straight to hell in a kate spade saying this the day after my nana is hospitalized from suffering a stroke, but i could use the balmy temps and a hot little tan. let it be known that i truly despise the elderly.

don't get me wrong..not all who are prune-faced and teeter along at a tortoise's pace warrant my hatred. my nana is the definition of red-headed perfection, my papa is so cute albeit a tad senile, and i want to adopt ralf, the owner of the building i work in. i get high-fives every day from the parking lot attendant at beachmont, "hello, bella! como estai?" from joe with the missing middle finger, and small talk and weather reports from the security guard on congress street. they make me laugh and occasionally give me money. clearly, i am down with this crowd...and why wouldn't i be? they're a fun bunch. it's that other breed of fogie that i wish would trip on their orthopedic shoes and fall face first into a soiled bedpan.

old people think that they can say and do whatever they want without any repercussion, much like a rebellious teenager..but sporting depends instead of a thong. some can get away with a snide remark or dig by masking it in "what? where AM i? who ARE you?" confusion. even i, the queen of the short fuse, can let one or two comments like these slide without going bruce lee on the person whom from which it came. hard to believe, but i do have somewhat of a conscience, a few manners buried beneath years of cynicism. however, catch me on a bad day, like monday through sunday, and the once polite pretty princess is no where to be found. an example, you request? you BET.

i wake up one morning a few weeks ago and decide that the twenty-four dollars in my bank account might like some company. so, i round up some spare bills and uncashed checks, hop in the civvy, and zip on down to the bank. traffic on broadway is horrendous per usual and i am forced to listen to the oonnnntttzzzzoooonnnntttzzzoooonnntttzzzzzz vibrating from the speakers of the guido behind me. with the bank finally in my view, i put on my right blinker and prepared to turn..but what's this? an illegally parked cab and equally illegally parked truck are blocking my path, leaving approximately 4 centimeters of pavement between the two cars for oncoming traffic to flow through. not wanting to do any more damage to my ride, i wait patiently for one of them to move so i can proceed to ever so slightly increase my account balance. i was still half asleep, what with it being 10:30 and all, but i bolted upright when i heard a voice from the left. "what the fuck are you doing?" the voice croaked. i turned to see a wrinkled face scowling at me from the back seat of the cab. not wanting my first words of the day to be negative, i explained ever so sweetly that i was just waiting for him to move so i could maneuver my vehicle into the bank drive-thru. i guess i was wrong in thinking that he would nod his head in understanding and tell the cabbie to hurry along so the lovely young italian girl could get her finances in order, maybe even give me a quarter for my cause, but my explanation was instead cut short with an equally gravel-throated, "well hurry it up, mother fucker." i couldn't believe it. i honestly didn't think people that age were allowed to say that, let alone know the term at all. with the miss america smile still plastered on my face, i looked him in the eye and said, "you are so lucky you are going to die soon, or i would kill you myself you son of a bitch." guess who came out looking like the bad guy? she didn't have a penis, that's for damn sure.

since that incident came and went, the experiences i have had with the non-youngins has been few and far between, but delightful none the less. until tonight. i was again in my car, driving to my cousin's house to unwind over "confessions of a teenage drama queen" (her choice, not mine) and a fattie (a mutual and excellent decision). i was stopped at a red light at a major intersection, waiting for the light to change. john mayer quietly crooned about a split screen sadness when the light turned green and i eased my foot onto the gas. the next thing i know, winthrop avenue merged into the last lap in the indy 500 because the gray-haired gent beside me floored it, cutting me off with inches to spare. i went with my first instinct and flipped him off and continued down the busy street. i switched lanes, and father time immediately swerved his hoopty in front of me. switched lanes again moments later with the same result, except this time he tried to fast brake and make me hit him. it was only after the third escape attempt that i looked at his license plate and saw the words "disabled veteran" emblazoned across the metal. his motor skills seemed razor sharp from where i was sitting and i'm pretty certain that i was suffering more post traumatic stress than he could ever claim. at least he didn't call me a mofo..to my face.

old people are an acquired taste, a delicacy to some and utter garbage to others. personal preference is the name of this game, but it shan't be too hard to figure out where my taste buds reside on this matter. as always, i am constantly looking for a lesson to be learned through an otherwise unpleasant experience, searching for something, anything, that will help me see my surroundings from a slightly different perspective. this time is no exception: i am never growing up. EVER.

..pass the playdough, not the prunes,
lex