In t minus one year, me and a former classmate/ fellow printmaker will be co-hosting an alumni show at Regis University (more about that later). Over the summer we’ve been working together on various type of printmaking. A week or so ago we had a chine collé day. I decided to revisit the shotgun homes with some of the colorful tissues I have laying around. From there I added accents with acrylic paint. This is the result.


Advice For Men on Bumble (and other observations about modern dating)

Being that I’m a single woman about town, and being that my last romantic experience was less that successful (see previous post) I’ve decided to join the world of smart dating (which is an extremely misleading name by the way). Do you like how this blog is quickly veering away from my art and hurdling towards a more wannabe Sex and the City meets Penthouse vibe?

Bumble is an extremely simple app. It requires very little information from a person. Anyone is capable of selecting 6 decent pictures of themselves and providing minimal personal details that don’t make them look like an idiot; there’s little room for error. My dog could do it. And yet, here we are. There are so many things people don’t need to get out of a first impression. For instance, right now I’m siting on the couch, sans pants, eating a loaf of french bread for dinner and watching Locked Up Abroad. Do you think I took a picture of that and posted it on my Bumble profile? Absolutely not. Is it something I do? Obviously, but I don’t advertise it on social media (oh wait). The point is, it’s very easy to pick out the best parts of yourself to display on this sort of forum. So if you are making any of the mistakes listed below, I want you to delete bumble, work on yourself, and then come back when you’re actually prepared to interact with women. (Note: be aware that these tips are very specific to my own personal preferences. Other women are much less judgmental than myself.)


1. All of your pictures are group pics

We’ll start off with a no brainer. This is a scenario in which 99% of the decision is based off your face. YOUR face. If every single picture is with a large group, how on earth am I supposed to know which one is you? Either you don’t understand how Bumble works, or you’re trying to camouflage yourself; neither of which make you especially appealing. Next.


2. All of your picture are goofy AF

Your profile reads “looking for a serious commitment, no hookups,” and yet, in your profile pic, you’re making world’s derpiest face while wearing a sombrero and a cape. You’re sending me mixed messages, bro. And in this fast paced game of swipe, I don’t have time to sort it out. Next.


3. Jorts

This doesn’t just apply to bumble, it applies to life. If you have them, burn them. And certainly don’t post pictures wearing them. Unless you’re a dad at a BBQ with your Salt Life t-shirt tucked in, wielding an NFL themed spatula. In which case, you’re probably not within my parameters anyway. Next.


4. All of your pictures are selfies

Do you have friends? Negative points if it’s a gym selfie. This might seem to contradict the “all of your pics are group pics” rule, but really, I’m just looking for variety. And please PLEASE don’t stand in the mirror wearing a towel very low on your hips. I’ve never met a girl in the history of bathroom mirror pics who didn’t find that setup hilarious, and not in a good way. Next.


5. Your bio is some sort of clever joke or limerick 

You’re quoting Dwight from The Office? How hilarious are you. You copy and pasted some silly wordplay you found on GQ’s website? So original! This tells me NOTHING about you except that I hate your brand of humor. I need my men to be sarcastic and cynical, not living versions New York Times comics. Next.


6. There are girls in your pictures

Ok, she’s your sister. How am I supposed to know that? All I know is that she’s cuter than me, and I don’t want to deal with it. Also, why are you embracing in a hammock while looking into each other’s eyes? Do you know anything about women? Next.


7. You appear to be a pseudo model

Looking away from the camera? Black and white (or better yet, sepia)? Mysterious wind blowing through your mostly unbuttoned white linen shit? I’m not sure why you’re standing against this cement wall with seemingly no other people around in what appears to be an alley in Barcelona deep in thought. If I go to Barcelona, I certainly don’t want to spend my time as your personal photographer. Next.


8. You’re holding a fish/gun

Oh, I see you’re a real man. Thank god, now I know you can hunt and fish while I forage for berries and tan your furs. Next.


9. Your Mom and/ or a (any) baby is in the picture

I’m not biting. What you’re doing is obvious and a little bit twisted. Now, do you have a dog? Please, tell me more about this dog; post as many dog pics as you’d like. That I’d be into. Mom? Not so much. Next.


10. You’re playing a guitar in your pictures

This is a tough one. I say that because only under an extremely specific set of circumstances does this do it for me. Otherwise, you come off as pretentious. I’m already having nightmares about the truly awful song you wrote for me that I have to sit through, with the backdrop of your Urban Outfitters tapestry and empty Busch Light cans. Next.


11. You’re “looking for a cuddle buddy”

This is the most important rule of all. Nuff said. Next.


For the sake of being fair, this is my profile. Judge away.



If we’ve matched, congratulations! You’ve made it past my impossible and unreasonable standards by which I choose a partner. (I’d like to think my expectations are realistic, but let’s all be honest here; I’ve pooped in a bucket, I deserve to be alone forever).

One interesting aspect of Bumble is that (for straight couples) the woman is the one who makes the first move. The downside to that is that it creates a whole new way for me to be rejected. This is to say that too often I’ll match with a dude, say hello and get no response. Which is confusing to me but simultaneously makes me a giant hypocrite. While I can’t fathom why you would swipe right only to ignore me, I frequently match with someone and then knowingly run down the clock without making contact. I contradict myself in most areas of life and Bumble is not an exception. I’m infuriated by men who ignore me in this forum, but frequently ignore men who have matched with me. I guess we all get a little trigger happy with the swipe right?

If and when you do proceed to conversation, it’s usually a few lines of (somewhat) witty banter followed by the inevitable “wanna grab coffee/ a drink sometime?” At which point you say yes, and then text everyone you’ve ever met your location alongside this man’s Bumble profile pic. Is it only my mom that panics at the thought of a Bumble encounter IRL? In my opinion, it’s just like any other blind date, but in the age of technology, everyone has the potential to be a serial killer.

Once you’ve met, and established you’re in no imminent danger, it is in fact just like any other first date. There’s the semi-awkward smalltalk, followed by family history and so on. It’s interesting to me the ratio of people who are on Tinder/Bumble/Hinge/Grinder etc. versus the number of people who disclose having met a sig o via one of these apps. I can’t believe that there are millions of people who use a service that results in absolutely no relationships, however minor. Which basically tells me that no matter how prevalent it may be, online dating of any form is still taboo.

We literally do every single thing via apps. Order coffee, pay bills, adopt dogs… Last month I ordered an HDMI cord and a Three Musketeers bar via goPuff at 1am. So it only makes sense that we can now order dates like Chinese food with one swipe. I myself pride myself in my ability to operate my entire life almost exclusively through my phone. But if a guy on Bumble did fit my extremely specific criteria, and we got married and had children, would I tell my kids the real story of how I met their father? Would I tell anyone outside of my immediate friend group? My parents? I don’t have an answer for that right now. Revise your Bumble profiles and I’ll get back to you.

The Ever Elusive Emotion-Free One Night Stand & What Comes Next

In the span of 72 hours I’d worked, drank, found love (sort of), lost love (sort of), had hangovers, recovered from hangovers, drank more and then died a little. All together I’d gotten approximately 8 of sleep (including a 30 minute nap behind the locked doors of a children’s store fitting room), and I survived those three days almost exclusively on coffee (to the point were I now have a pretty aggressive tremor in my hands that won’t go away). For the past few months I’ve been working 6-7 day weeks, picking up as many hours as possible. So, the dilemma has been what to do on my time off: have a life or sleep. Sleep lost, big time. Being that I have very little free time for said life, I tend to go pretty big when I can. It all finally came to a head a few nights ago on the side of the interstate in the backseat of my car around 1am. And no, this isn’t going where you probably think it is. And what did I learn? That I probably need to find a better work/life balance, but that won’t be happening anytime soon. What else? Very little. You should probably take this time to make yourself a cocktail, I’m pretty confident you’ll need it.


It was Friday afternoon, and I was grabbing happy hour with friends. Between the 35 days without a single day off (except for a quick beach vacation, but that doesn’t really count), lack of sleep and pink happy hour wine, you could say I was doing pretty great. Two bars later (one of which smelled like a rotten turtle pond) and one plant filled drink later, I was doing even better on the rooftop of a beloved restaurant and bar overlooking downtown Denver, with my gal pals and having a ball. And then it happens. You see, I have this super power that only surfaces once every few years, where I spot a guy and know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s on. And naturally, the night of many drinks and no sleep is the very night my powers decide to kick in. Obviously when you’re born with a gift, you have to use it – it’s irresponsible not to. This particular man happened to be a waiter, who I then followed to the kitchen and demanded his age, time he got off work, and phone number (in that order).

Much to my friends’ surprise (but not mine), this tactic worked, and shortly thereafter I was on my way to yet another bar with this gentelman, we’ll call him Glen. Glen possesses qualities that check off  many boxes on my list. Non of these things really matter though, as I never planed on seeing him again beyond this night. He was good looking, tattoos, well spoken, funny, good looking, and really fucking attractive. Most importantly, he didn’t bat an eye when I said shit like, “I’m only wearing my glasses so I could see into [a stranger’s] apartment” or “I have an instagram famous dog.” You see, I’m a very self aware person. I can be extremely bizarre, but I also know this about myself and revel in it. I think it’s pretty hilarious sometimes. However, to people who don’t understand this about me, first encounters, especially unfiltered drunk first encounters, can be pretty uncomfortable. In any case, he was on board almost instantly, and as I already knew, it was on.

The next day, I was compelled to send Glen the uncomfortable testing-the-water-to-see-if-he’s-interested-in-hanging-out-again text. I didn’t expect much. But he was cool and I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. And anyway, being that I’d already seen his penis, I thought my chances were pretty good here. Which is where I was dead wrong. (by the way, my gift is also a curse). In the midst of some light conversation, he let me down in a way I’m sure he though sounded very respectful. I was disappointed to say the least. And so I found myself in the extremely conflicted place of ‘I don’t want to date him, but why doesn’t he want to date me?’ Which is a very tricky headspace to be in if you’re a girl who’s now had even less sleep, buzzing on 6 espresso shots, and hungover while trying to manage a children’s store and would be working at a second job later that day.

Glen had been on my mind pretty consistently all day, replaying the witty banter and other events from the night before. But, must move forward. So, when I got off work I met up with friends to celebrate Denver Pride Weekend. I wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, but rallied and went out anyway. Which, yes, involved a lot of tequila and some questionable penis-shaped jello. I danced the night away with some amazing humans and experienced this overwhelming feeling of joy and love for the people in my life. Which you would think would have snapped me out of it. LOL. The next day I went to work and paced around, trying to make sense of all of my crazy, and if you know anything about being a girl and feeling crazy, there’s no way to make sense of it. Five o’clock rolled around about a million years later, which probably would have been a really good time to go home, sleep it all off and revisit my life the next morning, being well-rested. But instead I went straight from work to a show at Red Rocks.

(Disclaimer: This next part might be a trigger for anyone who’s every shit their pants or is sensitive to pants-shitting situations.)

It wasn’t my worst idea. I saw Local Natives and Portugal. The Man, and they were lovely. I didn’t even drink (I had one beer). But on my drive home, my exhaustion, likely dehydration, anxiety, resentment at myself for experiencing feelings for a human being, and just overall lack of self care caught up with me. (It’s important to know that I throw up a lot. Anyone who knows me even a little bit could attest to this quality. For this reason, I now keep a “vom bucket” in my car at all times – because sometimes, puking into an old paper cup or oil change receipt just doesn’t cut it. On my drive home that night, I’ve never been more thankful for my weak stomach and need for such a bucket). I started feeling this awful sharp pain in my abdomen, that at first was unrecognizable and then all at once I knew. My body was rejecting the the past three days, all of it, right that second. I swerved over to the right lane to get off the interstate at the next exit, pulled over in the dark of night (which sounds like the beginning of a horror story. And in some ways it was), climbed into the backseat, and let go of all the things that had been weighing on me, into the vom bucket (which was promptly thrown away). Let me just say, shitting in a bucket in your own car has the ability to change a person. However awful it was, I did suddenly feel absolved of all the stress.

I do feel so much better about everything now. When your body has such a violent physical reaction to a man, that’s got to mean something. And I feel like it means Glen is not for me. I’ve taken the whole thing as a sign that I’m not ready for anything no-strings-attached, and I don’t know if I ever will be. As appealing as living my life as an emotionless void sounds, and used to be, I just don’t think I’m up for it anymore. I spent the last four years chasing the real thing, and I want that again. So for now, I’m retiring my hoe jersey, and ignoring my so-called super powers. This is by no means a definitive declaration of my abstaining from sex, but I also don’t want to end up on the wrong end of a slasher film without a bucket.

That’s my story, not sure what it’s accomplishing. Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.




Sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately. May has been non-stop for me, and for the first time in about three weeks I finally have some time to sit and collect my thoughts. That’s not exactly true – I have has some downtime which has been spent mostly reading so I can post an updated reading list/review (you’re welcome). But aside from that, I’ve barely even had time to eat (also not true, there’s always time for food).

I was in Nola for mothers day weekend (pictures below) and since then I’ve worked every. single. day. Two of my friends have had birthdays, there were three holidays (cinco de mayo, memorial day and wine day – but if I’m being honest, everyday is wine day, amiright?), two funerals, one First Friday, one dinner party, one music festival, The Bachelorette FINALLY started, several meetings with various employers, mentors and co-collaborators, and one emergency trip to the vet. (Notice the non presence of brunch on that list – so sad). I’m sure I’m leaving a lot out, but essentially, I’ve drafted very little new art and I’ve been seriously neglecting Stanley (which is probably why he faked an injury and is currently lit AF on painkillers; another story for another time).

More to the point, there IS new art coming, which I will be updating you on as it comes. I’ve also been lacking on my posts, and for that I apologize. I promise to also be better about regularly posting – even if it is just to apologize for my lack of posting. BUT, later this week I’ll be posting an open letter to Mariah Carey accompanied by a top ten list songs that revolutionized pop music and changed the world (I’m really not joking). SooOoOOoo, be on the look out for that, because it’s sure to be one hoot of a read. And to prove I’m not completely exaggerating my level of commitments this past month, here’s photo documentation of some of the events listed above:


IMG_5238First Friday/ Cinco de Mayo
IMG_5243First Friday/ Cinco de Mayo
IMG_5338Mothers Day Crawfish boil
IMG_5377Mothers Day
IMG_5362Mothers Day
IMG_5331More Mothers Day
IMG_5305Shelby’s Birthday
IMG_5401Dinner Party
IMG_5444Emergency Vet Visit (for no reason)
IMG_5445The Bachelorette Viewing Party

Pink armpits, and how you too can defy society’s beauty standards

pink pits

When I was in the 7th grade I stopped shaving my legs. I had only been shaving for about 18 months at that point, after approximately a solid 6 months of begging my mom incessantly to buy me a razor because “all of my friends are shaving.” Then, after all that, I abruptly stopped. I had come to the conclusion that I didn’t need clean-shaven legs in order to be beautiful. I’m not saying I was wise beyond my years, but…… However, I clearly remember stretching before a cross country meet (that’s right, I did cross country), and the girl next to me was thoroughly repulsed. After explaining myself she said something along the lines of, “Yeah, I don’t think you need to shave your legs to be pretty. But still.” But still. That was enough to question my choice, and I couldn’t think of a single counter argument. As soon as I got home I shaved my legs.

From that point on I shaved my legs nearly every single day until I was 24.

About two years into the relationship, my last boyfriend mentioned not caring whether my legs were shaved or not, and he asked my why I did. I had to think about it, and I didn’t have an answer. I was in the 7th grade all over again.

So I’ve spend the last 6 months or so trying to figure it out; do I shave because it matters to me, or because it’s what I’m supposed to do as a woman. There’s a long list of things we do to our bodies as women largely because it’s what’s expected of us. Pluck our eyebrows, wax our labia, wear bras (but let’s not get into the sexualization of the female nipple), spend endless amounts of money on makeup at Sephora, and on and on. I’m not saying that by doing any of these things you’re anti-feminist, and I’m certainly not saying I’m not guilty of all of them and more. I am all for doing whatever you need to do to feel beautiful. But I’m finding out there are a lot of things I do out of duty, that don’t necessarily affect my self confidence.

Shaving my legs and armpits and other regions is a big one. In the past few months I discovered that I do in fact personally need to shave my legs, (I have a very hard time sleeping with prickly, touching legs). I did stop shaving them every day, which has saved me a ton of money on Aveeno.  However, I realized that I don’t care at all whether or not my armpits are shaved. And why should I? It doesn’t affect my sleeping and it doesn’t change how I feel about myself.

There’s a lot of grey area between what makes you happy and the expectations of others. The idea of beauty “norms” is pretty toxic, and I think the best way to combat it is to take a step back and weed out all of the things that don’t affect your self concept or personal wellbeing. This eliminates the singularity of societal standards and broadens the spectrum of what we consider beautiful.

Which brings me to bleaching and dying my armpits cotton candy pink (there’s a brief how-to at the end of this post). First and foremost I did it to make a statement. It draws attention to the fact that I have body hair and starts a conversation about why we view body hair as gross; its natural! My point is not that women should grow out body hair, throw away their bras and sport an Alicia Keys-style nude face. Wear makeup or don’t. Beauty is about being completely comfortable in your own skin and loving yourself inside and out. My point is that there isn’t one single definition of beauty, and in recognizing that, we can all lead happier lives. Happiness and confidence is a regimen that makes a woman the most beautiful across the board. These are the only beauty standards we should hold ourselves to. Dying my armpits is more an act of rebellion against cultural constructs than a projection of my truest self (ew, how pretentious do I sound?), but it also makes a statement, and that makes me happy.


How To Die Your Lady Pits:

  1. Bleaching: Mix powdered bleach with a liquid developer (follow developer instructions for mixture) and apply with a professional brush. Let the bleach set for 20 minutes (The time will vary based on thickness and color of hair. Also note that some people experience a burning sensation from bleach, proceed with caution.) Thoroughly rinse bleach out of the hair and dry.
  2. Coloring: Make sure the hair is totally dry before applying color with a brush. You’ll want to be careful when applying as to not dye your skin. Let the color sit between 40 and 60 minutes. While you wait, you’ll want to keep your arms up to avoid smearing the dye onto skin (this gets super tiresome and also a little painful, but if you made it through the bleach you can do anything). Rinse the dye out with shampoo in cold water and you’re done!
  3. Touching Up: Once the color starts to fade, apply color with your fingertips – I recommend wearing disposable plastic gloves, and allow it to sit for 20 minutes (arms up), and then rinse.

Lunch with My Favorite Artists

Last week I had lunch with two of my absolute favorite professors from college. They’re both extremely accomplished artists in their own right, and any time we’re in the same room I’m desperate for their approval.

Willie Sutton (right) is a photographer who shown his work in countless galleries, was featured in National Geographic, and was recently awarded the Guggenheim Fellowship (no big deal). View his work and learn more about him here.

Eugene Stewart (left) is slightly more elusive but also one of the most interesting people I know. He’s a printmaker who I credit for inspiring me to explore my passion. You can view his work here, however the fact that his site is limited in content and currently “under construction” sums him up very neatly.

Both men sort-of happened into their careers at Regis, from what I understand. Which is not to understate their talent or hard work, but does speak volumes about the job market’s devolution. They have been professors forever, but are first and foremost artists.

I’ve been having lunch with Gene ever since I met him in 2010. Willie, however, is harder to pin down which made his presence at lunch all the more surprising and kind of hilarious. They both have a very dry sense of humor and banter back and forth through most of the meal which provides endless entertainment for myself and also reminds me of how I interact with my close friends. Despite their distinguished titles and dress, their immaturity towards one another reminds me that though boys grow up into men physically, mentally some will always remain boys. And that is certainly not an insult; in many ways I believe having a young spirt nurtures and is almost necessary to the artistic lifestyle.

Which bring me to my next point: twenty-somethings are in a very similar position as retiring professionals. Hear me out. Gene and Willie discussed Gene’s upcoming retirement, and it’s a conversation much like I have pretty regularly.  They talk about what he wants to do with his life, his passions, continuing his education, new experiences he wants to have and who he wants to become. Being someone who struggles with all of these points daily I’m both relieved and horrified to learn these are not questions that are answered through a long fulfilling career.

Recently a fellow twenty-something made a point that has stuck with me for the past few weeks: she said “Don’t mistake having a career with having a life.”

Eventually the two of them were able to break away from their boys club meeting, and we talked about me. My life, my career, an upcoming show they are mentoring me through. When I brought up feeling lost in Denver and wanting to make a new start in San Francisco, despite not exactly having any job prospects – they were both thrilled. This isn’t exactly the reaction I’ve received from other responsible adults in my life, and it was a nice change of pace. I’m not discounting the fact that they come from a totally different time, nor how male privilege has benefited them through the years (as I’ve mentioned, the ratio of male to female artists featured in galleries is dumbfounding). And I am certainly not under any illusions that things will just fall into place for me the way the two of them seem to think they will. But from the standpoint of Gene and myself being in very similar positions; forging new roads and finding ourselves, it’s encouraging to have their approval, if only just this one time.

Eventually, Willie excused himself to go and meet with the mayor (or something ridiculous like that), and Gene and I chatted a bit more about the art show I’m cohosting with another Regis alumni. We hugged goodbye, and I went home.

I’ve thought a lot about everything that was said in our meeting. And I’ve realized my vision of the future has changed. I’m less insecure about my career; one way or another I will find a way to make a living. But first and foremost, I am an artist.