Glitz & Grammar

Life and Times of a Wannabe Writer

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Moving On

Hi friends!

It’s time for a change. I miss blogging, but have outgrown many of the topics and quips that fill the pages of Glitz & Grammar.  I’ve transferred quite a few G&G posts over to my new blog…for the sake of remembering the wild years I felt the need to document and share with everyone on the internet. I’ll be deleting this site in a couple of weeks, so I really hope to see you on my new blog! It’s called Biggest Little Blog: Tales and Tangents from the Biggest Little City. You can find it at

I’ve grown a lot in the last six months, since moving back “home” to Reno. And I really hope to share my new adventures with you as I continue to learn about and better myself! And, of course, I love hearing from you too! So please subscribe and leave me comments! I promise to write back and keep in touch. Thank you for reading me. I look forward to hearing from you soon!


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This Blog Will Self Destruct in 3…2…1…

Glitz & Grammar will officially be out of commission beginning next week. I am going to post an explanation on Monday (or Tuesday or Wednesday or, let’s be honest, probably next Sunday since I said next week and that’s still technically next week) as to why, but for now just know that the love and support I’ve received from this blog has helped get me through some incredibly tough times throughout these past four years. And I am incredibly fucking grateful for that.

Anyway, I’ve been posting a bit on my main site,, lately. Though I tend to keep that site a bit less addled with F-bombs and fart jokes and whatnot, my hope is that some of you loyal subscribers will follow me over there. Sure, mostly just contains links to my photography, poetry, and writing clips I’m not ENTIRELY ashamed of, but I promise if you read between the lines (pun. kinda.) you’ll see I’m still the same weird soul.

Here’s a poem I posted recently over there:

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It solicited this response from my ex, who I wrote about A LOT on G & G:


That made my heart swell like the Grinch’s on X-mas morning. Or Kayne West’s D when he thinks about himself at night.

Anyway, we’ll talk more next week. In the meantime, go subscribe to my new blog! Leave some love in the comment section or link me to your own work, because I love reading you guys, too!


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A Birthday “Poem” for Saylor


I love you more than you’ll ever know
Because although you’ve created this image that you’re some disgusting ho
(And while sometimes I’m inclined to believe that might be so)
The truth is that you’re one of the best men I’ve ever know…

You’ve been through tougher shit than with which most peeps have to deal
Shit normal people couldn’t fathom might possibly be real
Still, sometimes you annoy me, and your face I’d like to peel…
But I could never ever do that, because then I’d really feel…

[This is just a side note but poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme. Or have like perfect stanzas and whatnot. #art.]

You make me laugh every single day
Even though 90 percent of your punchlines are nothing more than,
When I’m sad, you can sense so from a million miles away
And with your Jedi master/ninja tricks, my tears you fucking sleigh

But it’s not just my spirits you make it your duty to uplift
The entire city of Las Vegas knows your gosh damn shift
Because at the end of the day, when people are tired and tiffed
You’re the one person they can count on, and that’s your fucking gift

I know that’s a lot of pressure, and it weighs down on you sometimes too
But you never seem to show that tired, demanded side of you
You’re the strongest dude I know and I mean that, I really do
In many ways you’re my hero, and I mean more than just a few

There exists no other fella with a heart as big as yours
You always see the best in people, even girls, or as you sometimes call them, “whores”
You’d give the shirt off your back to someone in need, probably even your drawers
Which (if I thought about your underwear) would be tighty whities and themed Star Wars

I remember the day I met you; I hated you a ton
You had zero redeeming qualities, nada, zippo, none
Now I know you better, and you’ve since grown out that awesome bun
But as much as I adore your hair, it’s my heart over which you won

There are only a few men in my life I honestly respect
And as much as me three years ago would probably object
You are one of maybe a handful who gives me worth beyond a speck
You’ve built me up more times than I can count when I’ve felt nothing short of wrecked

So thank you for being you, one of my favorite people ever
A donkey, no doubt, but also hilarious, kind and clever
I know you hate it when people call you bro, so I’ll just say you’re like a “brether”
Also that makes this stanza rhyme…
…even though poetry doesn’t always have to rhyme or have perfect stanzas or whatever

<3 Horse

P.S. The only part of this “poem” I didn’t mean from the bottom of my heart was the donkey part. You’ll always be a stallion in my eyes. Happy birthday, homes.


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This is your art on drugs

I’m going to be honest with you, I haven’t done a ton of drugs. I mean, I’ve dabbled. I’ve definitely dabbled. Enough to the point that I could never like, be elected president of the United States or anything. Which is a total bummer because otherwise I had that shit in the bag.

Anyway, one time I took a Sudafed PE and my mom had to rush me to the hospital because my heart was beating so fast everyone thought I was going to die. The doctor diagnosed me with an allergy to Pseudoephedrine, and ever since I kinda figured that if I can’t even handle a little cold medicine I ought to steer clear of any of the hard stuff.

Still, I’ve always had this crazy idea/dream/bucket list item to write a story—one same story—while under the influence of different drugs.

But apparently some guy beat me to it. He used a different creative medium—painting. But essentially he did what I’ve always secretly wanted to try. He took a different drug each day, then painted a self-portrait while under the influence of each.

Here’s his story:

Do you think this is cool or crazy? Maybe “cool” is the wrong adjective. Perhaps “interesting” is a better choice. I dunno. What do you think?

Screen shot 2014-04-10 at 11.09.14 PM
^ Photo credit: Elite Daily

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It’s Opening Night and I’m excited

I will never forget the day I fell in love with baseball. It was a few games into my first season of little league (yes little league…I wanted to play with the boys) when I hit my first home run. My homer was only mildly impressive, given that the ball never made it past the pitcher’s mound. But the fumbly pitcher kept knocking it back and forth between his ankles, long enough for me to make it around each of the bases. As I rounded third and bolted for home plate, I could see the fiery pride in my coach’s eyes. My coach was also my dad.

Before I could even realize what I’d done, Dad was screaming with joy and lifting me up into the air in celebration. “That’s my girl! That’s my girl!” he chanted to the bleachers while pointing to the back of my jersey which donned the number 9–a number I’d only chosen because it was his growing up. I hugged him hard and beamed inside, because the feeling a little girl gets upon receiving the approval and recognition of her daddy is truly unparalleled.

Anyway, this post is in honor of my favorite holiday ever—Opening Night/Day. Let’s go Padres :)

Slugger^ The little slugger herself

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Break UP

I remember my first breakup as if it were just yesterday. It sucked and I wanted to die. I was 23 at the time (late bloomer) and my boyfriend of two years had fallen out of love with me about a year into. Why he stayed with me that extra year is still a mystery, though all signs point to: I’m really great at oral.

Now, a seasoned ex-girlfriend, you’d think I’d have the hang of things. But I don’t! Breakups still bring me to the brink of death. Every single time.

Especially this time.

For those who hadn’t noticed (I did, after all, update my Facebook privacy settings to hide my current relationship status [#nunya]), my most recent boyfriend of a-month-shy-of-a-year and I split up. The only difference was that this time around we both still really loved each other. It was the quintessential “I love you, I’m just not in love with you” breakup. And let me tell you what, those are the fucking worst.

The truth of the matter is that many people in our situation would have continued on to the next logical step, which would have been, of course, getting married, followed shortly thereafter by having not just spur of the moment but purposely devised, unprotected sex to lead to the popping out of offspring via my vajay. I mean, not to sound smug or anything, but from the outside looking in, we were the perfect couple. We lived together, we took vacations together, we packed lunches for each other with cute little notes on the napkins, we took killer Christmas photos. And despite the fact that we were both pretty decent human beings who thought the absolute world of each other, the spark we shared in the beginning of our relationship—the one that old cartoon couple from Up still felt 50-some-odd years later—had been missing for quite sometime. And if any two people ever wanted what Carl and Ellie from Up had, it was he and I.

Knowing we weren’t meant to spend the rest of our lives together didn’t make our breakup any less painful, however. And these past few weeks have been among my life’s most difficult. Brink of death difficult.

I’m not sure why breakups take such a lofty toll on me. It’s not like I’ve ever been the white picket fence type of girl. As much as I respect those people—the ones who have seemed to master the art of life what with their nine-to-five jobs and all, their mortgages and gorgeous families, complete with a Pop Warner-playing son who is exactly two years older than his ballet-dancing sister—that’s just never been my style. That’s never been what I’ve wanted or strived for. For one, I tried the nine-to-five thing. I worked in a prestigious law firm that closed multimillion dollar deals on the weekly and let me tell you what, that shit was BORING. Also, I have enough trouble committing to a yearlong apartment lease, let alone signing my life away to live in a single house in a single city in a single state in a single country for ten years plus or however long it takes to pay off a home loan. No thank you.

I guess the hardest part for me—and this is some spill your guts out gore about to be spewed up in here—but the hardest part for me is that I know I’d be a great mom. And as I get older and older and continue to experience failed relationships, continue to turn my nose at perfectly eligible future baby daddy candidates, I realize I may very well pass up my opportunity to be a mother. They say it starts getting tougher to have a baby once you hit your thirties. Last month I turned 29.

But if there is one thing I want more than to be a mother, it’s to fall head-over-heels in love with the one person I was meant to share my life with. And as nonconventional as I have lived my life thus far, the common thread I have shared with humanity is my belief in true love and the fact that there is one person out there who was meant to spend forever with me. And until I find that, I am not willing to settle.

And I will venture to the brink of death a thousand more times if it means finding my Carl. Even if we’re like, 90 when it happens and I have to adopt or whatever.


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My 2014 Resolutions/To Do’s

Technically the new year doesn’t start until midnight, but I thought I’d post my resolutions a few hours early. Not because I’ll be too busy celebrating the welcome of 2014, but because I am a bartender living in Las Vegas, which means at midnight tonight I’ll be deep within the weeds, serving the loudest, drunkest, most obnoxious group of humans enough liquor and cheap champagne to fill Lake Mead twice over.

So without further adieu, here is a list of resolutions/to do’s/bucket list items…whatever you wanna call it:

  • Take a photography class
  • Get First Aid/CPR certified
  • Host a “Game Night”
  • Bungee jump or zip line
  • Surf
  • Swim with sharks
  • Take a self-defense class
  • Travel to a foreign country
  • Visit far-away friends/family members
  • Learn to play a musical instrument
  • Get out of credit card debt
  • Join a gym (and actually go to it)
  • Get a writing job
  • Save $20 per bartending shift to put towards a travel fund
  • Volunteer somewhere cool
  • Put all bartending paychecks into savings

Happy New Year, everyone. From the bottom of my heart, I hope it’s your best yet.

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App of the Month: Notes

Remember when I said I was going to start reviewing iPhone apps, one per month? Well, it should come as no surprise that I never followed through with that. However, I did review Snapchat that one time and I am about to review another of my all-time faves: the “Notes” app that comes standard on pretty much all iThings.

I give Notes ten out of ten possible stars, even though I’m pretty sure my initial scale maxed out at five. Why such a high rating, you ask? And that’s a legit question. Because there’s nothing really special or cutting edge about the Notes app. It’s just this virtual notepad-ma-bobber wherein, using a thumb and/or index finger, users are able to jot down….notes. That’s it. But I love it!

Notes can be used for a variety of one’s note-taking needs. I imagine normal people utilize this app for writing down grocery and to do lists for later reference; perhaps they store reminders of upcoming events. But that’s not how I use it.

As a writer with the attention span of a toddler and memory of a goldfish, I’m often not inclined to sit down and write at the exact moment an idea strikes. But I also have a hard time remembering all my Pulitzer-worthy ideas later down the road when I’m ready to pound ‘em out.

Enter the Notes app.

For me, Notes is a place to quickly get down any idea I may have, the second it pops into my head. All I need is a phrase or two–“how to pack light for a long trip”; “Disney characters who were probably gay”; “a cheapskate’s guide to tipping like a not-jerk”–to serve as a trigger for a later time, a time during which I might actually feel like writing an article, essay, or blog post in its entirety.  In this regard, the Notes app is quite the handy little tool. But functionality is hardly the reason I rated it so high.

To me, the true potential of Notes is only ever realized months after typing an idea into my phone, months after whatever the hell that brilliant idea I had made even a scintilla of sense. These notes, the “what the?” ones, are the reason I love Notes as much as I do. Because the entertainment value in stumbling across a note like the following I just found, one I wrote myself at a moment I was probably certain I’d just come up with the perfect scenario to turn my novel into a bestseller, blows Candy Crush or whatever you’re into out of the water:



Edit: This was an actual story told to me by my father. I remember when he told it to me! I just don’t remember how I thought it would relate to my book about a zombie apocalypse…

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Happy Fish

Today was a hard day. I don’t really want to go into it anymore than that, but I do want to document—if for no one else other than myself—that I made it through a super tough 24 hours.

My heart is heavy but hopeful. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Now here’s  a cool pic of some happy fish I met at a sushi bar last night:

HappyFishLittle dude had no idea what was happening to his buddies just a few feet away. Perhaps ignorance really is bliss.


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