Monday Night Pots

My sweet mother, who also happens to be a talented potter, has asked a favor of me.
Was I currently stressed about my upcoming economics test? Why, yes. But when the woman who has dedicated 22 years of favors to you asks for a favor, you give her a favor.

My mama has been making pottery for quite some time now, and I've learned not to call her on Monday nights because that's when she's in the studio. She decided to start selling her beautiful pottery (about time) and needed to create her business: starting with a logo and a business card!

I took her requests, taking her pieces into consideration, and whipped up what I could. And she loved it!
So here's to introducing... Monday Night Pots!

How Do You Find a Needle in a Haystack?

I take a deep breath. 

That was a bad idea. I feel like I just inhaled a tablespoon of dirt and I start to cough uncontrollably. 

My eyes are closed. I try to open them for a moment but I flutter them shut when something sharply pokes my retina. 

My feet are flat on the ground, weight evenly distributed between my legs for balance. I take another deep breath. Shit! Why do I keep doing that.
I slowly raise my hands up with my arms perfectly parallel to the ground. I begin to move them outward in a circular motion. I kind of feel like I'm doing breaststroke. But instead of water, I'm in a giant haystack. How did I end up here? No time for questions, need to find that needle. I start to move faster and inch my way through the stack. It's itchy. I hate it. But I must persist because this was the prompt I was given. I search high and low, far and wide.

My motivation is dropping as quickly as this rash is developing all over my body. So itchy. So tired. Ow! I look down but I can’t see through the thickness of the hay. I smile because I realize that I finally found the needle, but I frown because it’s stabbing through my pinky toe. 

It was uncomfortable, but I completed my task. All you need to find a needle in a haystack is a little perseverance and a lot of anti-itch cream. Ok now someone help me out of here, please!

Look At All Those Chickens

A girl in my class asked me if I owned chickens... this moment really made me think about what kind of vibe I've been giving off to my fellow art-mates.

These prints were actually inspired by my mama (mother goose, mommy duck, mama hen, what's the diff?), and the fact that I mindlessly create a variety of birds in my art. It's weird; I'm working on it.

Side note: Hand-printing 54 sunflowers burns approximately 250 calories.

Dog Print

I'm back... with more art!
Contrary to common millennial female behavior, I actually am not obsessed with dogs. However, I do like some of them, and my favorite is my dog, Shine! (it's a family name, don't ask..)
Anyway, she happens to be photogenic enough for my own enjoyment and other (Snapchat) needs. I chose to use her for my latest print project-- based off of a photo I had taken of her (shown below.) Enjoy!

(5 layer linoleum reductive print)

Wrestling Persona

Hurricane Irma has given me cabin fever so I have decided to share what I've been doing this semester. I'm taking a relief printmaking class for the first time and didn't realize what I had been missing all my life. Besides sculpture, it's been one of my favorite classes already and I really enjoy the process of linoleum printing. 

Anyway, here is my women's wrestling persona (2 layer print):


Weighing in at an aggressive 114 pounds, Spicy Hollapeño is a fiery red-head who is super enjoyable to be around-- when you’re on her good side. She decided to turn to wrestling after her therapist first suggested ways to tame her hot temper. Now, fighting is the only way Spicy Hollapeño can cool down once she’s heated up. Common causes of her fiery rage include: when someone insults the Yeezus album, when people chew too loudly, when a teacher gives her less than an A on an assignment, or when she asks for no sour cream on her meal and it still comes with sour cream. So be extra careful, or you could be one of the victims she takes down with her signature move, The Carrot Topper. But if you’re ready for a sizzling brawl, just give her a #holla. #srirachacha

10 Weeks in NYC

I had the pleasure of working in NYC this summer as a content production intern at mcgarrybowen. I learned a lot about working, advertising, and living life in the real world. But who am I kidding- I'm here to keep you entertained. So here is a list of things I learned after 10 weeks in NYC, completely unrelated to my internship.

Manhattan is the actual entire island, not just the small area on the map that says "Manhattan."

You will never be deprived of falafel in NYC.

The more anxious you are in the backseat of a cab, the more likely your driver is to hit a pedestrian. (I actually created this correlation myself, but based off my stats [2 hits] I'd say it's pretty accurate.)

Not all of NYC looks like Times Square... who knew!

Kroger does not exist here & it's ok to get emotional when spending over $45 on groceries.

The more anxious you are about being in contact with a rat at the subway, the more likely a rat with the girth of a large eggplant will scurry over your feet. (Again, a correlation I invented, but can attest for...)

Walking around alone doesn't make you a creep, just a girl with a fitbit trying to reach her step goal!

If you are out for the day and need to pee more than you've ever had to pee before, chances are you won't find a bathroom.

Sometimes nothing solves your problems like a good frozen margarita.

You're literally never the weirdest person on the streets, no matter what you are doing/wearing/or holding. (And if you are... you probably wouldn't be reading my blog.)

Riding a bike, in fact, is not like riding a bike. (As in it didn't come back to me...like riding a bike.. ha.)

Scott Disick exists! I saw him! In Greenwich!

Bottomless brunch is the concept we didn't know we needed.

Money... money is a good thing to have.

JK, I Actually Attended Another Yacht Party

I'm running full speed down the west side highway in NYC. (Yes, my full speed might be your slow jog but a girl's gotta work out somehow.) A man on the side of the path reached out to grab my attention and stop me mid-run. Typically, I would never stop my run for just anyone because odds are in NYC they're asking me for money (do I not look like a poor college student?!) but this time it felt promising.

I could tell this kid was about my age. He was short, dark, and handsome (can't have it all these days) and wearing some kind of army uniform. After he greeted me I discovered he was foreign because, well, he had an accent and didn't speak English too well. He attempted to tell me about this party they were having on their boat that night, and invited me to come. (I only say attempted because it was more pointing and hand motioning than actual words.) Turns out the Italian Navy was just chillin' in NYC for a few days and brought their fancy-ass ship with some really impressive gold foiling on it.
I took the invitation and told him I would consider coming. "One more thing he told me," and he pointed to the fine print on the invitation. "Attire: Formal," it read. Or something like that.
I smiled and gestured toward the size large t-shirt I was wearing and said, "so I can't wear this?" He looked at me like I was a freak. I thought it was funny. Let's blame it on the language barrier.
So I folded the invitation, put it in my pocket, and ran off. Guess who just got invited to party on a super fancy ship? Meee! Um, yeah, I was there. Oh.. Ya. *keeps running*

So flash forward, my roommate and I show up to the pier, ready to party. We are escorted onto the boat, and are surrounded by beautiful Italian men. We looked pretty cute (I mean, we were formal.. I put on lipstick for this shit) so all the boys obviously wanted to talk to us. We had some funny conversations, and most of the guys spoke English pretty well. We drank some wine at the bar and ate some pretty dank pasta.

All in all, we had a great time, and it was even more fun knowing that I was actually invited and didn't have to worry about being kicked out the entire time (see previous story from my first Yacht party).

Tattoos I Would Have Gotten and Regretted

When it comes down to humanity, there are really only two types of people in this world: #TeamTatted, and #TeamHmmImGonnaHaveToThinkMore. Whoever you are, we've all thought about it to some extent. Whether you have a tattoo for artistic expression, to remember an event, or to piss off your mom, you've gone through some sort of thought process to lead you to that moment. Ya know, that moment of sitting in that bright lighted room that oddly resembles a dentist office but the dentists traded in their scrubs for gage earrings and beards... and never went to dentistry school.

And then, there are the rest of us. The ones who have thought it through before, had brilliant ideas (or so we thought), but there was always something holding us back.

As an artist of sorts (you know, takes studio classes at schools, spends over 10 minutes editing my Instagram posts) of course I have considered getting a tattoo. I've actually contemplated it a generous amount considering the fact that I would rather suffer from the flu every winter than have a needle jabbed into my arm. But when I think back on my young and reckless years (which I might still be living in), I think about the many obsessions I've had, along with my poor judgment, and realize just how easily I could have gotten the worst tattoos imaginable.

Let's kick it off with my earliest obsession I can recall: monkeys. Yup, the disgusting animal that is creepily close to a human but hairier than (not all, but) most. I drew monkeys, I wore monkeys, I played with stuffed animal monkeys, I even LOOKED like a monkey! (I'm talkin' elementary school, my face was still too big for my head, you get the picture.) But can you IMAGINE if I didn't have a loving mother who would never let me get a tattoo as a child, I would have had the Limited, Too style monkey on my upper arm?? (the only location kids think tattoos can be)

Next, let me take you back to the times of purple skinny jeans and checkered converse... welcome to 7th grade. Middle school is the time to explore your inner emotions and wear them on your sleeve in the form of side bangs and colorful eyeliner. It was no surprise that I, just a misunderstood kid trying to fit in, was completely obsessed with all the punk bands, my favorite being All Time Low. The lead singer was gorgeous with his thin, greasy hair and voice of an angelic lemur. In a time of rebellion and angst, it's a blessing that I didn't end up with the lyrics to Six Feet Under the Stars tatted on my ribcage.

I really found myself in high school and college. More tattoo ideas I may have pondered include but are not limited to: "Jon Snow & Ygritte Forever," a photo of Drake at his Bar Mitzvah, a detailed list of the foods I can't digest, "Bad Bitches I'm Your Leader -Nicki Minaj," and the date of Mike's death on Breaking Bad.

So there you have it. Luckily, I am a very indecisive person- too indecisive to ever choose a tattoo design or location. Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to get one, and then look back on it in regret as a grandma. Until then, I'll stick to Sharpie...on paper.. I'll just stick to drawing.

First [and Last] Yacht Party (June 2016)

We were ready. We had it all planned out. I was nervous. 

Danielle and I were the only two who registered for the OpenX Yacht party in time, so we had to find a way to get Grinz and Srishti on the boat. We talked it over, planned for multiple scenarios, and reported for action.

As Danielle and I approached the security, I went back through the plan in my head. Step 1, ask if we are allowed to bring friends on. Step 2 if Step 1 fails, look for names on the list to send to Grinz and Srishti. Step 3, fuck, was there a step 3?

“Hello!” we said to the security man, acting natural and friendly as ever. “What company are you with?” he asked us. Shit. We have to be with a company? “We’re from the University of Georgia,” I replied confidently. The man flipped through his papers. There were lines and lines of names, but he was moving too quickly through the papers to find ours. The goal was for Danielle and I to memorize as many names as we could from the list. It was hard for me to focus on any, but I finally pinpointed a girl’s name to send to our friends. Lisa Menaldo. Score. The security guy found our names and crossed them off the list.

“Thank you!” we said very appreciatively. As we carefully made our way down the walkway to the boat, I realized we skipped Step 1. Dammit. 

“Did you get a name?” I asked Danielle with a soft voice. “Yeah, Lisa Menaldo.” Well shit. What are the freaking odds. We completely forgot about Step 1 and completely fucked up Step 2. I texted Grinz to tell her that we only got one name, and that you have to give them your company name too. They were screwed at this point.

As we walked onto the yacht, I scanned the scene with amazement. The boat was big, but not too big. There were older people hanging around and talking in small groups. You could tell they all had real jobs. We did not belong. We walked upstairs to explore and to discover why yacht parties are so highly regarded. Who even owns this yacht? What is their annual income? And why are the stairs on this thing so steep?

As soon as Danielle and I were positioned casually on the top level of the boat, a lot of different people approached us. A few men who were maybe in their 30’s were very interested to know who we were and why we were here. We told them that we are students on a study abroad, etc etc, the same old script I’ve been using all week. One of the men asked us if he could get us drinks. I said sure, knowing I wouldn’t actually drink a drink from a stranger because my mother taught me better than that.  

All hopes were lost and our esteem was lower than ever when I see Grinz and Srishti climbing up the stairs to the top level of the boat. Holy shit, they did it! How did they get on?! Srishti seemed to read my mind and responded quietly, “We’ll tell you in a sec.” 

We went to seek out the bar and the bartender hooked us all up with a berry gin and sprite. Grinz and Srishti described to us their encounter with the security. They told him they were with M*** Media Group, leading him to find the group in his papers. He scanned through the list and read two names aloud, asking if they were them. “Yes that’s us,” they replied, even though the two names were boys names. The security guy completely fell for it. I’m not sure if it was luck or Grinz’s charm, but they managed to succeed, and I’m so glad they did. Not even the free drinks, boys, and food could have replaced experiencing my first yacht party with my friends right here with me. I’m not gonna say lying is good, but it might just get you on a yacht. 

When you risk it to get the biscuit, you might also get some free mini hotdogs along the way.

But I wonder if Lisa ever made it on the boat.

Forever in Seek of the World's Greatest BBQ

“I can’t tell if y’all are serious right now… like we’re not actually going in there, are we?” It’s not rare at all for me to question my parents motives. I am generally confused by the choices they make, and even more so when it involves food. My dad is the king of food. Well, at least he thinks he is. Every single time we go on vacation he searches every restaurant on “Yelp” before we are allowed to eat anywhere. Not only is my dad the king of food, he’s more specifically the king of barbecue, and the king of dragging us into every BBQ place we pass, forever in seek of the world’s greatest BBQ.

“We have to go in!” My dad says excitedly, scrolling down the screen of his iPhone. “One review says that its a hole in the wall, but definitely somewhere you want to come back to!” We’ve been sitting parked outside the small shack for about 15 minutes now debating whether to go in or not. It would be nearly impossible for my father to pass up this opportunity at this point, especially with an obsessive compulsive attitude and an irrational love for pulled pork.

“Bruce, I don’t feel comfortable leaving all of our luggage in this car in this neighborhood… oh my gosh, look at this guy” my mom says nervously. I shift my gaze from the sketchy BBQ shack to a tall man slowly walking past our car with bright red sweatpants half way down his thighs. The general population of the people at my high school dress like that, so I wasn’t too taken back by his outfit. However, I could see how this place gives off that “I’ve been broken into one too many times” vibe. After thoroughly examining the menu online, my dad finally made an executive decision to eat there. I stayed in the back of the pack as my family walked in, studying the flyers and signs outside while trying not to look too uneasy. ‘No masks, no weapons, no sagging.’ Oh, well that one’s reassuring. 

“Welcome to K & J Rib Shack,” I hear a strong female voice say as I step inside. Looking to my right I can see that this place is pretty much just a kitchen with 4 tables, and I’m assuming they had no heaters, because I was starting to wish I had on about 3 more layers of clothing. We were the only customers, and I questioned how long ago the last visitors ate there. While my dad orders everything on the menu for all of us to try, my sister and I take a seat. My mom joins us. As our food takes 20 minutes to prepare, I sit in my cold chair watching the entrance and waiting for something horrible to happen. I imagined every crime scene possible. Luckily, there weren’t too many masked saggers robbing the shack with a machine gun that day. 

One of the two employees brought out the food which was individually grouped in plastic containers. Even as a lover of BBQ, I was almost scared to try it. But as soon as I laid my eyes on that creamy macaroni and cheese, I knew had to dive in. It was alright. Actually, it was really just average. I wanted to get home and I was starting to think this was a huge waste of time. I decided to give this place one more chance and grabbed the container of lima beans. After one bite… I was fucking sold. I had never tasted such a damn good lima bean in my damn good life. For a sketchy BBQ shack in the middle of nowhere, they sure knew how to make some beans. Although the search for the world’s best BBQ is still in occurrence, this hole in the wall sure has my vote for best lima beans. You can quote me on that, Yelp.

That Awkward Moment When Your Hair Is Orange

It was easy. My blonde, flawless ringlets effortlessly bounced up and down everywhere I went. I didn’t even have to try. Being a kid was easy- no worries, no responsibilities, no cares. And hey, life is fun when everyone thinks you’re adorable. My elementary school career was as carefree as my curls. You wouldn’t expect one year to make that much of a difference, but once you enter 6th grade, you are bound to get struck by the middle school curse. Some people walk into the room of puberty and come back out looking like a twenty-year-old centerfold. But myself… well, let’s just say the Ginger Gods finally found someone to pick on.  

That perfect world I once knew of blonde curls was shaved away with a razor blade and replaced by an entirely new world that was red, frizzy, and hard to manage. I wasn’t like the other girls who could just roll out of bed in the morning and be ready to go with their straight, brown hair. It was hard. I was different, and I didn’t know how to handle it. This wasn’t just a physical change. I started to get more insecure, nervous, and anxious. I was scared that my hair wasn’t up to the standards set by five-foot-tall girls in Abercrombie skirts and Sperry's. The only thing I wanted, like all other seventh graders, was to fit in. However, this was really challenging when you looked like Merida from the movie Brave. While most of my friends were experimenting with their styles and cliques, I was experimenting with hair products. Mousse, gel, cream- you fucking name it. I bought it all. I would have done anything to make my hair look normal.

Looking back, I realize that the stages of my hair ran parallel with the way I grew up and the person I turned out to be. In high school, I grew into myself. What I thought was a curse actually made me the confident person I am today. I have to be loud and proud to out-stage my hair, anyway. My hair defines me. It makes me unique. I matured when I realized that I don’t want to be like everybody else. Nowadays, everyone tries desperately to stand out, while my frizzy, red curls do all the work. Take that, Ginger Gods.

The Day Roberto Stole My Blood

The feeling of relief is an amazing thing. It feels like a 30 pound weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I’m finally done. No more scary hospitals, no more scary doctors, no more scary tests. Done.

I walk around the corner of the brightly lit hallway with my mom and the doctor.

“You’ll probably just have to get some blood taken, but that’s it,” my doctor says casually.

Yeaaaah okaaaay sure. They probably want me to come back in a couple months, but after awhile they will probably forget they even wanted to take my blood. Thank God I’ve never actually had to do that. Just the thought of it freaks me the hell out.

We continue walking around the corner and come to a little office on the right. We’re finally checking out. I’ve been here in this torturous place for 2 hours already and the scratchy, red wallpaper is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.  

“This is Roberto,” my doctor says to me, gesturing his hand towards the man behind the counter.

“Nice to meet you,” I reply kindly. Why is he introducing me to this guy? Maybe he’s trying to set me up with him. He’s kinda fine, and probably not over… 30.

“He’s one of the best guys we have,” my doctor continued. “All the little kids adore him. He has a way of making everyone feel really comfortable.”

Uhh okay that’s great, Doc. Is he really still talking to me? This man is so friggin’ weird.

“Okay come sit down,” Roberto says in his sexy, smooth accent. I pause for a second, not quite sure if he’s talking to me. I look over and see a hard, plastic chair in the corner. Then, it all hits me at once. He wants my blood. Holy shit Roberto is a vicious, thirsty vampire and I’m about to die. Well maybe not really, but this man is not about to stick a needle into my arm.

“Oh my God no!” I exclaim as I start to walk backwards.

“Jenna you have to do it,” my mom warns me. “They might be able to help you if they test your blood.”

“You did not tell me they were gonna do this!” I respond, trying to not freak out at her too much.

“I thought you knew... I was wondering why you were acting so calm!” she replies with a slight chuckle.

I spend about 10 minutes trying to convince Roberto that my blood was perfectly fine and taking it from me won’t help solve any of my issues. This is my biggest fear. The thing that makes me cringe just to think about. The one thing I just can’t handle. Simply the thought of straightening out my arm makes me feel weak.

Meanwhile, Roberto is trying to convince me that everything will be fine and he does this to little kids all the time. Everything he says to me I quickly respond to with a sassy remark. I can’t control what I say when I’m this scared. Luckily, he just laughs and thinks it’s funny.

After giving myself a quick pep talk, I calm myself down a little and let him do it. I feel the needle go in and immediately feel my face flush. Oh god. I can’t do this. I ask Roberto if he’s done yet and he says no.

I’m gonna pass out. The air around me is heavy. It’s hard to see. I can’t look up because the room is spinning in circles.

“Oh no you don’t look so good, let me get you a lollipop,” Roberto says frantically. I start to freak out more. I take the bright green lollipop out of its wrapper and try to eat it. Ew. I hate candy. And Roberto. Just kidding I don’t mean that, he seems like a very nice guy.

The doctor I was with earlier walks by and glances over at me.

“Your face is the same color as your lollipop!” he says, clearly trying to be funny, and clearly failing his attempt.

“Don’t tell her that,” my mom says nervously.

I let out a weak groan and Roberto tells me I need to lay down. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor and my mom is complaining about how she needs to pee. But I won’t let her let go of my hand. Wow I’m about to die. This sucks. Roberto rushes towards me with a Capri Sun. How’d he know I love juice pouches? Damn, Rob.

“Drink this,” he tells me. “The sugar should help raise your blood sugar back up.” I grab it and start chugging. And by chugging I mean drinking out of the straw as fast as I can. Straws are pretty limiting when you think about it.

Minutes pass and I’m still on the floor. I try to get up but my head feels like a feather. I soon mimic a feather as I start to slowly float in a downward spiral, making my way back to the floor.  

As soon as I’m fully conscious again, I realize that I’m sitting up eating crackers. I see Roberto and apologize to him 30 million times for being such a psycho. I finally get up and my mom helps me walk out of the room. I can’t believe that just happened. We walk over to the front desk and they let me take a sticker. I love stickers. I look through the neatly stacked pile. They’re all dinosaurs. What the hell is this. I chose the velociraptor. I only find it proper that I receive the most bad-ass dino to have walked the planet (or so they say).