On Sanity, Family, and Peanut Butter

Dear No One in Particular,

If you're following me on Twitter, you're already privy to my horrible job situation. Granted, it could be worse -- I could have no job situation whatsoever -- but last week I hit my lowest career point ever. I cried. At work. In front of my sole male co-worker.

Ever since, I've been working on checking out mentally and physically. I am sensitive to a fault; I take everything personally and hold onto every thoughtless comment for years, the better to beat myself up with. It's a combination not well-suited to customer service, much less retail.

Last night I found myself in a deep funk, dreading the return of the work week like a middle schooler dreads the return of school. But Disneyland couldn't have been 2 months ago! Summer can't be over! My only solution, fueled by a couple of glasses of wine, was to bake.

I'm an avid baker. I fancy myself an American Nigella Lawson, when really, I'm a horrifying mix of Paula Deen's ambivalence towards "heart healthy" ingredients, Martha Stewart's blind ambition, and a wolverine.

The kitchen routinely looks like a bomb exploded, leaving nothing but eggshells and butter wrappers and perfectly decorated cupcakes in the wreckage.

As messy and unorganised as I am in front of the stove, the precision required for baking is deeply calming to me. I'm incredibly self-assured in the kitchen, much more so than I am in regular life. I thrive in my self-made chaos, knowing all along that something beautiful and delicious is being born. A stereotypical control freak, I love knowing that, when I add 2 cups flour, 1 cup sugar, 1/2 cup butter, I get cookies every time. It's math and science I can wrap my head around: the kind that adds to my hips and subtracts from my lifespan.

I was planning on making peanut butter & jelly bar cookies, but I failed to read the recipe before I committed to purchasing all the ingredients. It was unnecessarily complicated, by which I mean I had to refrigerate and roll out the dough. I found myself staring at my KitchenAid mixer with equal amounts peanut butter and laziness. Peanut butter cookies it was then.

My family has a rather spotty history with peanut butter cookies. My mother loves them like I love Tofutti Cuties. They can't be in the house, and if they are, they disappear within hours. There's almost no danger, however, considering my mother can not bake. Her lack of skills are legendary in my household, specifically with regard to -- you guessed it, peanut butter cookies.

The first time I can remember her making them from scratch, she forgot to add the sugar. Needless to say, they were salty, disturbingly savoury little discs that only she was able to choke down.

The second time she forgot the butter. She will never forget the butter again, namely because anytime she mentions baking, I pop up like a little shoulder devil and mock her mercilessly about the butter. To spite me she uses Smart Balance, declaring them to be the same thing. They are not.

After producing peanut butter biscuits and dry, crumbling peanut butter-y sawdust, she stopped attempting to make her favourite dessert. I stepped up to take her place but never made peanut butter cookies, no matter how many times she asked. I would make fluffy, mouth-puckering lemon cakes; moist, fudgy chocolate cupcakes; refreshing berry muffins; even rich creme brulee -- but not peanut butter cookies.

I have an irrational dislike of peanut butter. Chunky is an abomination; creamy is tolerable. My mother always used chunky in her failure cookies, only adding to my increasing dislike of the sweet. But last night, not wanting to waste the pot of organic peanut butter the Boy so thoughtfully picked up for me, I steeled myself to face my nemesis.

There is only one way I really like my peanut butter: with equal amounts of dark chocolate and a nice smattering of salt. Using this recipe as a guide, I omitted the peanut butter chips (ew) and doubled the amount of chocolate.

I watched the oily batter swirl around in the mixer, clunking along as the chocolate chips were incorporated and lamented the fact that I'd have to handle the batter. It was so gooey; it would make an un-godly mess. And then I realised: I'd forgotten the flour.

After years of taunting my mother for forgetting the butter, I'd managed to forget to add all the dry ingredients. After smacking myself across the forehead, I dumped the flour mix into the chocolate-studded goo, praying that it would still come together.

It did. Sort of.

Baking requires that steps be followed and in a specific order. Mix them up and instead of chiffon cake, you'll have an orange-scented doorstop. The balance and control I was hoping to harness in my funk-fueled baking spree was lost. My self-assurance dissipated. There was no method to the madness; there was only madness. Madness, and wine.

So I shrugged and did my best to piece the batter together. In the end, the cookies turned out delightful. A little too sweet -- I wouldn't roll them in sugar next time -- but delicious and better for the fiasco that made them.

Who needs perfection when adding a bit more peanut butter will do?

--amanda

No Distance That Could Hold Us Back

Dear No One in Particular,

(source)

There's something about New Year's that seems to jolt everyone into a sense of self-improvement. I understand it: the symbolism of opening up a fresh calendar, a new start on life with the start of a new year, etc. I'm certainly not immune to it. My resolutions list reads like a stereotype: get a new, more fulfilling job; make a healthy dinner every night; read more books, watch less television. And at the top of the list: lose weight.

I read a lot of wonderfully written self-acceptance blogs, most notably Chicken Soup for the Dorky Soul and Average Fantastic. Heck, I've written posts on self-acceptance myself! But I can't say that I don't occasionally feel a bit hypocritical when I finally admit that, no, I don't really accept my body for what it is.

True, I still hold out hope that fat-phobia will go the way of the dodo bird, but I'd be a liar if I said that I didn't hope that my body fat went extinct with it.

At the end of the day, I still see my body as under construction. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain; the figure you see before you is being renovated.

Sure, a lot of this is stemming from the fact that I'm getting married (yes! The Boy is now officially the Fiance!) and the notion of taking tons of pictures in a white dress is making me break out in cold sweats. Yet, I can't help but entertain the truth that, for all my bravado, this is just an out for all my neuroses.
I'm incapable of viewing my body with a neutral eye. I see every inch of scarred skin, dimpled thighs, hair, crooked teeth, and curves upon curves -- all with a laser-focus that sends warning bells off in my mind.

Laura, of Ruby Bastille and Average Fantastic fame, recently wrote about cosmetic changes vs a message of body acceptance, a topic I've wrestled with myself. Does changing your appearance, however drastically, signal to the rest of the world that you were never really pleased with your body to begin with?

In my mind, self-confidence is the very root of self-acceptance. You can't have one without the other. Laura pointed out:

my self-confidence was suffering, therefore affecting the rest of my appearance. Not wanting to smile morphed into not wanting to be noticed, because I didn’t want anyone to notice that I wasn’t smiling. Not wanting to be noticed just felt gross.

I find my body displeasing, therefore I have poor self-confidence. I have poor self-confidence, therefore I am not pleased with my body. It's a vicious cycle that needs to stop.

If admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery, then my journey has begun. I'm not sure where, exactly, it will lead me or how long this adventure will take. I do know that I only have one resolution this year: to be happy with myself, just the way I am.

--amanda

No Worries

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm returning to the blogosphere bearing a Bachelor of Arts degree in Anthropology. I'm a college graduate. You have no idea how wonderfully bizarre it feels to type those words. In fact, I don't think it's fully sunken in yet; I've been so preoccupied with my trans-Pacific move that I haven't had time to really absorb the fact that I no longer have to do homework! My nights are free! I can read for pleasure! ...at least until grad school, which is still a rather nebulous option.


I was going to write up my thoughts on the whole graduation process and what it feels like to be a new graduate, especially a new graduate in such a rough economy, but I've decided against it. The whole thing would be so mentally- and emotionally-masturbatory and consist me gazing at my navel, which is fun for no one. Instead, I'm making the conscious decision to change the course of my life. (This is not to say that the following post won't involve some navel-gazing. I'll try to keep it to a minimum.)

I live entirely in my head. I'm rather introverted and enjoy mostly solitary activities. I tend to space out a lot, daydreaming of alternative futures or working over past events. I live in a world of words and thoughts, rather than a world of action, and for the most part, I've been pretty happy with this. However, I've grown increasingly tired of working things out in my head. Every sentence, every decision is a complex puzzle to be solved -- which often leaves me in the dust of opportunities that have flown by while I pondered every possible outcome.
I've decided I'm going to follow my intuition more; I'm going to stop over-thinking every little thing and just start doing. I've been told time and again that my gut instinct is my best option, and it's high time I start utilizing it.


A couple of months ago, my wanderlust kicked into high gear. My parents are big on travelling, so I feel that the itch in my feet comes from them. My mother is especially bad when it comes to impromptu travels: she moved to America 30 years ago just because she wanted a change.
Anyway, I woke up one morning yearning for a change of pace, but without a particular goal in mind. I tumbled countries and cities around in my mind, but couldn't really commit to one place to visit. I'm not a huge fan of "hopping" when I travel; I like to stay in one place and really get into the feel and rhythm of the culture. After a few weeks of hemming and hawing (Peru? Puerto Rico? Prague? Turkey?), a word/a name/ a country flashed into my mind.


Australia.

I'd never had any inclination to visit the country before. I mean, I wouldn't have turned down a vacation if it were offered, but there were so many other places I had on my top ten list ... so why Australia all of a sudden?
A couple of days later, I was reading a blog when Australia popped up. The original post had nothing to do with the country, but someone in the comments mentioned that their time in Australia was just incredible, and they longed to revisit. I thought nothing of it.
A couple of weeks after that, I purchased a magazine only to find an 8 page spread on the Australian outback.
A couple of days after that, a long-awaited book arrived. A chapter in, the author mentioned going to grad school in Australia, and how it was the best 2 years of her life.
A week later, a news program mentions Australia.

It seems the universe was trying to tell me something.


Going on a dream vacation after graduating is something of a tradition in my family, and I've been so lucky and so grateful that this has been possible. My mother and I talked briefly about what my grand graduation present would be this time around. She was planning on sending me to South America, but had forgotten all of her brochures and travel information. Sensing an in, I mentioned the country that had been appearing in my dreams. Apparently, a good chunk of my extended family has immigrated to Australia and have recently purchased homes in Melbourne. Here's where it gets freaky, folks: I really, really want to visit Melbourne -- not Sydney (though I'm sure it's lovely), but Melbourne.


I've spent too long thinking about what this could all mean, but I've decided to stop worrying over it like a string of prayer beads or a rabbit's foot. I'm grabbing my life by the reins and steering it toward Australia. The universe has put a hand at my back and is pushing me down under. I don't know why, but I do know that I need to go. Something is waiting for me there. I'm scared as all hell as to what it could be, but so excited to see what it is.


Ok, enough about me.
I've kept up with blogs as best as I can, but what's going on in your lives? Good news, bad news, weird news -- I'd love to hear it!

Also: I think I've finalized what's going to go into my care packages for my lovely readers. Things are finally starting to fall into place on my end, meaning that I suddenly have time for things like visiting the beach! And reading! And, of course, sending out little packages of my affection and aloha for the people who make me feel like I'm saying something worth listening to. Watch this space, dolls -- I'll be asking for your addresses soon.

--amanda

[all photos: mine; Honolulu, HI, May 2009]

"It needs more air than I am willing to admit."

Dear No One in Particular,

I identify overmuch with J.D. Salinger's characters. This probably says something significant about me; something tragic and obnoxious, no doubt. I'm sure there are better fictional characters to identify with, but I know for certain there are much worse.

Like most young people, I was first introduced to Salinger by way of Catcher in the Rye. I know there's quite a bit of contention over the book, and I'm not referring to the censorship controversy. Most people I know either loveloveLOVE the book or hate it with the fire of a thousand suns. Obviously, I fall into the former category, but I can kind of understand why there are so many firmly planted in the hater camp. Being forced to read and dissect books in school tends to have that effect on many great pieces of literature, and, let's face it, Holden is kind of a dickhead.

Yet what draws me to Salinger is his incredible ability to convey heartsickness in the written word -- more than depression, more than an aching loneliness, Salinger creates characters so complex and so beautiful in their flaws that their deep, deep hurt and crippling fears wind their way off the page and strike right into the heart of the reader.
More than anything, Salinger knows what it's like to feel alienated, confused, and deeply sad; moreover, he knows how that deadly combination can cause one to lash out, seemingly disaffected with the world.

Honestly, while I love Catcher, my absolute favourite Salinger tome is Nine Stories. A collection of -- surprise! -- nine short stories, I've always felt that this is Salinger at his best. (A very close second would be Franny and Zooey.) This is the book that should be taught to students; I've always insisted that should I lose my damn mind and become an English teacher, I would teach "Nine Stories". Just about every story breaks my heart in the best way possible.

My favourite story (possibly of all time) is "A Perfect Day for Bananafish". Bewilderingly, I've found it's easily the most misinterpreted.
My A.P. English teacher assigned us "A Perfect Day" as a reading assignment, and split the class into groups to discuss the story. To my shock and disgust, the most popular comment about the story was "God, he was so creepy!" I have a permanent dent in my forehead from headdesk-ing throughout the entire period. My classmates were in Berkeley, and the point flew so far over their heads, it was halfway to Jupiter.

Perhaps the reason I feel so strongly about "A Perfect Day" is because of my own struggles with mental illness, particularly with depression. I've since sought some help with my disorders, but reading "A Perfect Day" never ceases to remind me of how dark, how deep, and how torturous the pits of depression can be -- especially if you can play "normal". Seymour's relationship with Sybil, contrasted with the abrupt and painful ending, is a perfect "in" to a discussion about the complexities of mental illness. Seymour's mood swings, his obvious alienation from his wife -- all are hallmarks of a man wrestling to keep the demons at bay, if only for an afternoon so that he might hunt for the gluttinous bananafish.

Over the years, I've found myself engaging with the other eight stories in a way that I hadn't been able to upon first perusal. I'm currently re-reading "Nine Stories" and I was somewhat surprised by my reaction to the story "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut". A somewhat satirical story, "Uncle Wiggily" struck home in a way I'd never thought it would. While Salinger paints a sardonic picture of life in the suburbs, his popular theme of heartache and alienation runs just below the surface. There's not much action in the story, forcing the audience to read between the lines, digging deep into the characters to see what makes them tick -- and subsequently, what holds the story together. I found the story to be typical Salinger in that it sought to tackle the problems of diving into perils of capital-A Adulthood, leaving the romance of childhood behind. Main character Eloise's actions were largely motivated by her unresolved grief over the death of her young love, Walt Glass, and the ways that it shaped her as an adult woman. Her issues with her husband ("If you ever get married again, don't tell your husband anything. ... Oh, you can tell them stuff. But never honestly") and her violent outburst at her daughter stem from her heartache over Walt.
I was most moved by the ending, with Eloise imploring her friend to reassure her that she was "a nice girl". I saw this as Eloise's moment of self-realisation; she is able to see how deeply she was affected by Walt's death, and how it further affected her relationships with her daughter and her husband. Walt was ripped from Eloise's life, thus preventing her from connecting fully with those she should have unconditional love for.

I bring this up because I recently checked out "Nine Stories" from my school library and the margins are lousy with notes.* Someone must have done an analytical paper on Salinger and left their thoughts and analyses in the book.
Such notes remind me of how wildly two readers' impressions of a text can differ. The person who scribbled their thoughts in the margins apparently focused on different aspects of the stories than I would have. It's interesting, reading the notes along with the original text; it provides another layer, presents another interpretation I would not have considered otherwise.
I wish I could read the paper that the came from these notes. It would be an interesting read.

So: anyone else a rabid Salinger fan, like I am? Or rabidly anti-Salinger? Comment, please! If you'd like to just talk about the books that you hold near and dear, that'd be wonderful too. I love talking books with people.

--amanda


________________________
*I'm totally guilty of doing this, too. Apparently, I'm not the only one!

Love is All You Need

Dear Body,

I know we've had some issues in the past, and I haven't treated you as well as I should have. So today, in honour of National Love Your Body day, I'd like to apologise for all the cruel things I've done over the years.

I'm sorry for all the Chinatown haircuts, and that it took me so long to actually get a real, flattering hairstyle.
I'm also sorry for getting bangs in the 5th grade. That was a really bad idea.

I'm sorry for all the In-N-Out burgers and Jack in the Box fried mac-n-cheese bites. (But they were totally worth it, amirite? Fuggedaboudit!)

I'm sorry for all the times I ate a Cliff bar and called it a meal.

I'm sorry for the days when I just ate a cup of pasta, but spent hours at the gym, burning calories I didn't have to spare.
I'm sorry for forcing you to drop 3 dress sizes in a month -- you looked bangin', but you felt shitty. I'm sorry for making you feel shitty.

I genuinely apologise for all the yo-yo diets. I want to eat healthy, for once.

I'm sorry for not having my wisdom teeth extracted yet. I promise I'm going to take care of that this winter.

I'm sorry for moving to Hawaii, and for staying here. I know you're unhappy here -- I have the skin issues to prove it. We're going back to calmer climes soon!

I'm sorry for not sticking with the physical therapy.
For that matter, I'm sorry for causing all the back problems. I don't remember what I did to cause them, but I'm sorry all the same.

I'm sorry for wearing flip-flops for so long, and I'm sorry I haven't put insoles in my shoes to correct the damage.

I'm sorry for not wearing my glasses.

I'm sorry for that pedicure -- you know the one where the woman slashed open the top of my big toe? Yeah, that one.

I'm sorry for carrying around gigantic purses loaded down with tons of books and crap. I'm also sorry to tell you that it's not going to stop any time soon. What can I say? I have a lot of junk, and it needs to get hauled around.

I'm sorry I don't like vegetables, and that I keep forgetting to take my vitamins.

I'm sorry for all the times I stuffed my size-10 hips into a size-7 skirt.

I'm sorry it took me so long to get a decent bra.

I'm sorry for cutting, for pinching, for scratching, for twisting the skin off my hands and arms. And I'm truly sorry for not getting help sooner.

I'm sorry for not telling you "you are beautiful" every single day.
We are beautiful.

Love with all my heart,
amanda

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm testing out a new moisturizer, and really, all I can think of is:

Damn my face stinks.

[ETA: yeah, that didn't last. I had to wash it off. It's going back tomorrow.]

--amanda

Pillow Fight

Dear No One in Particular,

The Boy and I have been together so long that we're essentially an old married couple. We rarely converse, we bicker. We argue constantly, yet we can't live without each other. It's sweet sometimes, but mostly it's infuriating, since we don't argue about anything of importance. No, we fight about minor, everyday things, like what kind of milk we should buy. I admit, I have a short temper, but it's mostly his fault, since he provokes me.

This morning, we fought about pillows.
Yes, pillows.

He was doing the laundry (which is nice, I admit), and I noticed that the pillows were stained. Really stained. Like, I can't remember what colour these were originally, they're covered in orange-y blobs stained. Naturally, I was grossed out and told the Boy that we needed to buy new ones stat. He looked at them and decided, no. No, we didn't. The orange pillows were just fine, and besides, we're moving soon anyway so what's the point in buying pillows that are only going to be tossed out?

I stared agog. Seriously? Could he not see the vast amounts of gross? The gross that we sleep on every night? Our faces, our beautiful faces lay on these filth-laden pillows for upwards of 8 hours. They were being thrown out tonight, and we were buying new pillows.

He threw a conniption fit, saying that buying new pillows is a total waste of money. I pointed out that we're not moving for another year, and I refuse to sleep on a Petri dish for that long. He argued that we have extra pillows hiding in a closet, which he pulled out for me to examine. These "perfectly good" replacements have been stored in a dusty, unused linen closet for the past 2 years and are covered in stains of their own. Additionally, they're curiously both flat and lumpy. I tossed them back at him and told him that they're rejected science experiments, and I now have hepatitis from handling them.

He looked more closely at them, and began to laugh, asking why we still have them then. I blew a gasket. I started shouting about how he is a miniature version of his father, and can't throw anything away because -- God forbid -- he might have to spend money to replace something that is absolutely horrifying (can you tell this is a recurring argument?). He laughed some more, while STEAM CAME OUT OF MY EARS. He then attempted to compromise, saying that I can buy a new pillow, while he continued to sleep on the stained ones. I told him if and when his face falls off, he can't borrow my pillow.

The Boy then began to examine our current pillows, saying that maybe we should get new pillows. I picked one up off the bed, shoved it towards his face, pointed at a particularly nasty looking stain and shouted "DIS-GUS-TING."

His reaction? "Ew. Yeah."

And then I fell over dead.

I nearly took pictures of the pillows just to show you what I have to live with, but I have some semblance of self-preservation left. Suffice it to say, any sane person would have looked at them and immediately headed to Macy's. Instead, I had a 30 minute screaming match about why stained pillows are unacceptable DO YOU SEE WHY I WILL DIE YOUNG.

The upside? The Boy conceded, somehow squeezed 4 pillows into a plastic bag making an uber-pillow, and tossed them in the dumpster. That's one small victory for reason, and 4 years off of my life.

--amanda

Part Asian, 2x More Crazy

Dear No One in Particular,

Researchers from UC-Davis found that hapas* are twice as likely to suffer from mental disorders.
*For future reference, I refer to biracial Asian-Causcasian individuals as "hapa".

As a hapa woman myself, I can't help but be intrigued by the findings of this study. My knee-jerk reaction was somewhat defensive, but on future reflection, I don't really know how to feel about this. To be 100% honest, I'm hapa and I suffer/have suffered from psychological disorders. Do I think that my ethnicity was the reason for my problems? Not really, and if I'm reading it right, I don't think that the Davis researchers are saying that either.

I think that the research is stating a simple fact: hapas suffer from psychological disorders at a higher rate than their monoracial counterparts. The end. There doesn't seem to be any judgment passed on the individuals; they simply are. I am hapa, and I suffer from mental disorders; I simply am.

This is not to say that the study should be taken at face value -- quite the opposite. Such racially-charged studies tread along very dangerous territory. Studies such as the one conducted at Davis can be used to support eugenics arguments, and have been enacted in the past. Which leads me to one of my major problems with the study -- it goes nowhere positive.

I suppose that statement could be revised to say that "it goes nowhere" period. Like I said before, it makes the statement that, compared to monoracial Asians, hapas suffer higher rates of mental disorders. But that's it! Definitely, definitely there needs to be further study. Why do hapas suffer more mental distress? Is it an environmental factor? A rearing factor? Or are they simply being over-diagnosed? What is going on here -- and most importantly, can it be remedied?

There is a danger in these findings, but there is also hope. Speaking from personal experience, a lot of my mental distress can be traced back to growing up hapa -- which could be chalked up to growing up as an island. I'm not very old at all, yet I knew only one other girl who was hapa, and I'm the only person in my family who is mixed. Really, there was practically no one who I could relate to, which I guess could have led to my issues with depression.

Perhaps, perhaps if the researchers didn't stop -- don't stop -- working with mentally disordered hapas, they can reduce the statistics and raise the awareness.

--amanda

Get in Line

Dear No One in Particular,

I tried to resist, I really did. But I have to admit: I am fan of Michael Phelps.

Mmmm...Olympic Rings tattoo

Jesus Almighty, what living woman wouldn't be? I believe his goofy smile is adds to his overall deliciousness, but I know that "butterface" has been used quite often to describe Phelps.

So yes, I am one among many, many "Phelps Phans" (gross term, IMO) , and apparently, the New York Times is also a devotee.

Oh, and NYT? Thanks for the opening photo. Really -- thank you.

--amanda

Bad Magic

Dear No One in Particular,

I have a feeling that this day has been cursed. I've never had so many strange, bad things happen in a single 24-hour time slot. My problems, let me tell you them:

• I didn't get to sleep until past 2 am. This is kinda my fault, but I'd rather chalk it up to ...
• My terrible Guitar-Hero playing neighbour(s). I live in a high-rise apartment building, and one of the assholes who lives in a 2 apartment-radius of my bedroom is a video-game-playing vampire. Seriously, I only hear them playing after 11:30 pm, as though they were confused about what, exactly, "quiet hours" constitutes. Last night, they didn't start until 1:00 am.
  
• The Boy woke up with a migraine. I felt terrible, but he's the worst patient ever. I know I complain a lot, but he really takes the cake.
  
• I, uh, nearly passed out while practicing rescue breathing. I know I shouldn't be advertising that, but I think it's funny enough to warrant a mention. Of course, it wasn't so funny when it happened ... I blame the strange kneeling position crushing my diaphragm on my poor breathing technique.
• As I was driving out of the university's parking structure, the oncoming traffic was turning too close into my lane (a really, really common occurrence. I can't tell if the lanes are that narrow, or the drivers that blind), so I cut the corner too short and scraped the hell out of my "rims". It sounded like I had just put my car into a compacter, scaring the living bejeezus out of me.
  
• Approximately 10 minutes later, I was rear-ended. Really, I was love-tapped. There was super-minor damage to my car, so it wasn't a big deal. I should clarify: I was driving to Safeway when I was rear-ended. This is important because ...
• Approximately 5 minutes after I got into Safeway, the power went out. ONLY Safeway's power went out, too, which was the spooky part. I told the Boy we had better go, since it appeared we were cursed.

We did make it home okay, but I have one major problem: mosquito bites.
I'm crazy allergic to insect bites -- when and where ever I get bitten, I have a mad allergic reaction. I once got a bite on my forearm that caused everything below the elbow to swell to double in size. When the swelling went down, a very attractive pus bubble appeared at the bite source. Allergies = helping to bring sexy back.

Yesterday, I famously decided to ignore the Boy when he warned me that the little insect buzzing around was in fact, a mosquito. The bastard apparently confused me with a free buffet and bit my feet a total of 4 times. Naturally, my body LOVED this like I LOVE reality TV, and I now can barely walk. The crowning glory: the bite on the arch of my foot, which makes it look like I've implanted an egg just under the skin. A large, red, itchy, burning, limp-inducing egg.

Sigh. I'm now doped up on Benadryl and really annoyed that my feet are so swollen and furious with me for not taking care of them, I can't get my gym shoes on.

Cursed, I tell you!

--amanda

P.S. Did you catch the premiere of MTV's Legally Blonde audition-show? Natch, I did. It's like a shriller, WASP-ier version of You're The One That I Want.

Another thing:

I think I may have a UTI. I would check WebMd, but every time I browse that website, I end up convinced that I have cancer, or am already dead.

I'm currently drinking more water, but that only makes me want to wee more, which, I really don't think is helping the situation.

TMI, much?

--amanda