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

Don't Try to Fight the Feeling

Dear No One in Particular,

I am one of those people who think in terms of "rounding" and averages. Ever since I first learned how to round up or down, I've looked at numbers according to their distance from the number 5. Greater than 5 qualifies as many; less than 5, few.
This way of thinking is indelibly tied to the way I view age. 0-5 is baby age, 6-10 budding adolescence. 13 is adorably young, while 19 is positively adult -- old, even. All of this is patently ridiculous, of course, but I can't help but look the number 5 as a turning point, the pivot upon which "a little" turns into "a lot".

I'm 24 now, which means that I still see myself as relatively young. But once I turn the corner from 25, I'll be 26 -- a grown-up age. A 26 year old has their life on track; a 26 year old has a 5 year plan, does not live in an apartment and definitely does not have kitchen appliances sitting on the dining room floor like a 24 year old. Despite the fact that 26 is still 2 years away -- so much can happen in 2 years! -- I'm already panicking at the thought that I will be Officially A Grown-Up in very soon.

Of course, being a grown-up is not a switch that turns on after you pass the quarter-life point. It's a process, as Kanye would say. I know in my heart of hearts that I'll be a fine grown-up, whenever that may be. But a part of me wants to be a Toys R Us kid forever.

A good deal of this -- perhaps all of it, if we're being totally honest here (which we should be able to be, right? If I can't be honest with a couple million strangers, then who can I be honest with?) -- has to do with the fact that 3 weeks ago, the Boy and I celebrated our 6 year anniversary. Of course, 3 years is a long time to be with someone, but 6? Six whole years of being in a relationship? That is definitely a long time. And because we've gone past that milestone, marriage is a topic that we've been discussing more and more.

I love that I say "we" and "discuss"; the Boy is a typical boy: the thought of marriage is something that is far, far down the line for him. Like, Bejing far. Really, the only man I've ever known to admit to fantasizing about his future wedding is, we all suspect, a very closeted gay man. Who also happens to be very out as a total douchebag, but I digress.
I, on the flipside, am a typical girl: I've been dreaming of weddings since I was 5, making Barbie and Ken (Ken and Prince Eric also went to the chapel to get married, but that's another story) tip-toe down the aisle in lace scraps and cloth napkins.

I've held many an imaginary wedding in my day; my most memorable took place in 5th grade. After magically managing to con one of the boys in our class into being the groom, my best friends and I spent an hour in the bathroom, dressing the "bride" in toilet paper and seat covers. We made a rather convincing veil and bouquet, and a not so convincing train to tuck into her Catholic-school-issue plaid kilt. I officiated the wedding, but unfortunately it dissolved a mere 24 hours later. Luckily for my bestie-bride, I was also a successful divorce attorney and managed to get her a Lunchables as alimony.

Now that I'm getting older and in a long-term, loving relationship, a wedding is becoming a very viable reality. It would stand to reason that my brain is positively sizzling with white lace and flowers; that every synapse is firing to the tune of the "Wedding March". But, oddly enough, it's not.

Somewhere down the line I decided sorry Billy Idol, but I don't want a white wedding. I'm not altogether convinced I want a wedding. Oh sure, I want to be married -- I very much would like to marry the Boy -- but I don't want a wedding.
My ideal situation would be to elope: to call up some close friends and head to Vegas. I would be married by an Elvis impersonator at some cheesy little chapel on the strip. I'm not kidding you guys -- I would wear turquoise blue with cheetah-print pumps and Elvis would officiate. It's my dream, and it's utterly unattainable because it would kill my mother. Kill her dead. And I can't have that on my hands.

So I keep putting together various scenarios for if and when we decide to get married. I have a specific chapel in mind if we must have it indoors, but ideally we'd just sign something at City Hall with as little pomp and circumstance as possible. We'd have dinner with close friends and family at somewhere iconically San Francisco, preferably with a gorgeous view. When dinner ends and all the olds go home, we invite everyone under the sun to a bonfire on the beach, where we dance all night in the firelight. Sparklers, cupcakes, and booze will be involved.

The details are still hazy, but driving home tonight I had a revelation. I've always agonised over the music: what to walk down the aisle to, what will play during our first dance? Tonight I decided.

This will be the first song we will dance to as a couple:



And half-way through, when everyone is getting bored with us watching us spin around the beach, deliriously in love, the needle will skip and this will cut in:



And everyone will dance, deliriously in love with love and life and the way that the flames reach up to tickle the stars.

--amanda

(I know I'm not the only one who enjoys a good wedding fantasy. Dish in the comments, my darlings, and we will ooh and ahh over the romance together!)

No Place Like Home

Dear No One in Particular,

Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here.

I bet you thought I had forgotten about this little space. Not a chance.


I'm back from Australia, although I was sorely tempted to become a permanent ex-pat. Seriously: I LOVED it. It was so much more than I had hoped it would be, and nothing like I had dreamed. Something had pushed me to Oz, told me something incredible awaited me there. Not to sound too San Francisco-hippie, but I left the States knowing that the universe had great plans for me.

It's hard for me to recount, what exactly, was so amazing about being there. I wasn't given anything tangible -- not a souvenir, a job offer, or even a picture of a single piece of magnificence -- to hold up and say "THIS. This is why I had to go." But the fact remains that I'm a different person now. Visiting Australia, even for that short period of time, changed me. I can't wait to go back and see what else will happen.

I do, however, have a highlight reel and tons of photos:

If you're planning your Mighty Life List and thinking Australia should be on it, let me be the first to stand up and shout a resounding yes! It's an incredible place and there is so much to see, that I recommend making multiple trips if you can swing it. Or, if you have more stamina than I, take a long, long vacation and travel the entire country. I only made it to the big cities, and my only regret is that I didn't allot time to visit the Great Barrier Reef while I was there.

This is technically a wallaby, but my point still stands.

One thing that every visitor to Australia must do is feed a kangaroo. Honestly, I almost edited my Life List to include this, because I wish I had thought of it sooner. I'd only seen kangaroos in zoos, behind plexiglass walls, so when my cousins told me that I would get the chance to feed them -- feed them with my own hands -- I just about peed myself with excitement. It was hilarious and amazing and kind of cheesy in a really great way.


In fact, all of the Australian wildlife is pretty great:

Case in point.

My favourite vacation fun fact: all of the koalas in Australia have chlamydia.

This is the face of chlamydia.

Speaking of wildlife, the fairy penguins? SO PRECIOUS. I was a bit hesitant to actually drive all the way out to Phillip Island, since I had heard that there were more tourists than penguins these days. I was even more hesitant when they told us to dress extra-warm, since we would be sitting on concrete bleachers at dusk on the beach. But! All of that changed when we saw the first bitty penguin waddle up out of the surf and scurry across the sand toward safety. The Centre is built right on top of the penguins' natural migration path, so you can walk up the hill alongside the tiny tuxedo-ed birds. No joke, it was the cutest damn thing I'd ever seen.
Unfortunately, there are no pictures of this event, since camera flashes scare the penguins. I snapped one photo inside the Visitor's Centre, which conveniently has little peek-a-boo windows into the fairy penguin's burrows.

Real live fairy penguins, in a real live fairy penguin burrow,
having a real live fairy penguin cuddle.

Another "must-do", specifically if you're in Melbourne, is see an Aussie Rules Football game. Don't worry about trying to make sense of the game; the rules are ridiculous and obviously made up by a bunch of drunk criminals who were bored with cricket. It's obscenely violent, but the fans are incredible (they put soccer hooligans to shame) and the players are gorgeous, in a very beefcakey, missing-multiple-teeth sort of way.


Remember how I said that Melbourne was the place I most wanted to see? Yeah, I take that back. Don't get me wrong -- Melbourne is marvelous! The Queen Victoria Market is heaven on Earth and I would kick a puppy to have even the palest imitation of it here in San Francisco. But I wasn't totally in love, ready to drop everything and set up home in Fitzroy -- not for Melbourne, that is.


I loved Sydney. LOVED IT, you guys; loved it like ... I can't even think of a proper analogy, I loved it that much. We had flown out of Sydney to spend a week in Melbourne, and on our flight back in, I remember the plane's wheels hitting the tarmac and sighing internally, thinking "Ahhh ... we're home." 5 all too short days in this glorious city, and it had imprinted itself on my mind as home. Every so often I wake up with my heart strings tugging me back to Sydney, and I want to cry.
I'm not so sure why I loved Sydney more when all signs pointed in the other direction. The food was better in Melbourne (marginally, because I must say the food in Australia is altogether tremendous; it's a country full of foodies), it's much less of a metropolis and more of a cultural hub, etc.

But Sydney, with it's gorgeous weather, delightful people, and cinematic familiarity just felt right. It felt as if the whole sun-soaked city reached out, hugged me close, and whispered "Welcome. We've been expecting you."

I've been mulling this over for months now, wondering why I felt so strongly about Australia in general, and Sydney (Sydney!) specifically. Before I left, I spent months dreaming about Oz and the wonders it held for me. Those dreams still continue, urging me to go back, to return home.

Australia isn't done with me yet, not by a long shot. But for now, I have photos to remember and a special place in my heart carved out for the land down under.

--amanda


Oh! Before I forget: remember, how, like 2 years ago, I asked Santa to bring me a pygmy hippo for Christmas? I SAW HER. No joke, she now lives at the Melbourne Zoo and I thought I had managed to stop screaming long enough to take a couple of photos of her walking around underwater, but apparently they were so blurry and out-of-focus that the Boy deleted them. But trust me: Monifa (hilarious name) is adorable and wee and just so precious.

Passing Moment Gone

Dear No One in Particular,

First of all, I know I've neglected this space. I don't have a good reason. Honestly, I'm a little disappointed; if I had a legitimate reason drenched in awesomesauce for failing to write on a regular basis, I would totally feel like less of a loser. So while, no, I haven't been climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, and no, I didn't punch a shark in the nose while collecting coral samples, I have been busy trying to figure out this "grown-up" nonsense. And let me tell you, it's been no picnic.

The start of a new year often necessitates a lot of selfish introspection; the start of a new decade, doubly so. Forgive me while I introspect selfishly? This is a blog, after all.

2009 was a beast of a year, for a lot of people. Almost everyone I know rang in the new year with a resounding "Thank God that's over with".
It wasn't that the year was particularly unkind -- at least, not to me -- it's that it was so fraught with drama, a hurdle to surmount every 5 paces, that it often felt that the end would never come. While it didn't come peacefully, the end is here. Thank God it's over with.

And now, a quick trip down memory lane. Visual aids when applicable, because words often fall short:

I graduated from 8th grade in 2000. There was so much pride and hope instilled in that fact: to be embarking on something so momentous and new on the cusp of a new millennium! It was almost poetic; in fact, I'm sure I have some rather awful poetry on this topic, just waiting to embarrass me.*
Equally poetic was my graduation in 2009. Two graduations bookended the decade; so much promise, so much uncertainty.

Fuck. Yes.

I can not begin to explain how freaking stressful it is to graduate from university. And yet, that last year, filled to the brim with tears and screams and hair torn from the roots, was easily the best in my academic career. I've never been so challenged by professors, nor had so much fun. I learned how to identify the gender and age of human skeletons, wrote an epic paper on the mind-boggling fluctuations of women's rights in Iran, decomposed logical arguments, and learned how to play the to'ere.

Mid-2009, following my graduation (insert fist-pump here), I moved from an isolated, technicolour island in the middle of the Pacific to a chilly city on the edge of California known for its bridges and foggy summer days.

While I consider both Honolulu and San Francisco home, I do not recommend this move. To anyone. Ever.

In 2009 I watched as my family shattered apart and came together again, drawing on a deep collective strength to create a new, fragile formation.
I also re-kindled a pathetically dormant relationship with my heart-sister. Moving back home after a long absence will do that to you.

The most fabulous redemptor and herald you'll ever see.

If 2009 was a year of difficulties, then let 2010 be the year of relieved sighs.

It was a long, difficult slog through the mud, all the while hoping that the pinpoint of light dancing ever so unattainably on the horizon would bring good tidings and most importantly, a sense of release.

It's a new year, a new decade; it's a new start.

A toast to you, my lovely darlings: thank you for stopping by, commenting, for sending gorgeous gifts, for reaching out through the series of pipes and connecting with me. Here's to you, doll; I hope this year shines as brightly as you.

Kiss kiss

Now bring me that horizon.

--amanda




___________________
*There are no photographs documenting my elementary school graduation because there's only so much humiliation I can endure.

Cupcake Dreams and Bugaboo Mornings

Dear No One in Particular,

HI THERE. Remember me? I missed you.

Based on the theme of my last posts, I'm sure no explanation regarding the radio silence here at BFNOIP* is required, but the one word that sums it all up is "chaotic". "Soul-crushing" is another good one, considering the fact that I graduated university only to be thrust into a crippling worldwide recession. If ever there was a time to join the world of adulthood, now would not be it.

I keep hearing two conflicting pieces of advice regarding the economy, and therefore, my future. One is "Now is a terrible time to be looking for a job!" and the other, naturally, "Have no fear: there are tons of jobs out there!"
Oddly enough, I've found that both are true. Yes, there are tons of jobs available -- any cursory glance at craigslist would tell you that -- but what the proponents of #2 are forgetting is that with unemployment rates through the roof, there are also tons of people looking for jobs. Competition is stiff, folks, so if you're securely employed count your blessings. If not, there are tons of jobs out there!

After a really rough couple of weeks spent staring vacantly at craigslist, desperately shooting off resumes, I've finally landed a job. I won't go into specifics for fear of being dooced, so all I can say is that I work for a good company with a fun name and if you have any questions about strollers or anything baby-related, I am here to help.
On the flipside of the paycheck, I have much less free time. I'm hoping against all hope that this doesn't cut into my writing too much, but we'll have to see.

I keep having to tell myself that my current position is simply a job and not a career. It's difficult to see the difference, especially as a new grad having to field oh-so-unique questions like "What are you planning on doing now?" and "Where do you want to work?"** The hard part -- the part that keeps me awake at night and constantly second-guessing myself -- is that I just don't know. I have a degree, but, like most degrees, it doesn't amount to a whole lot. There is no set path in front of me; I have to pull out my machete and start blazing my own trail. The difficult part? Figuring out where to start.
We all want our careers to be something we love doing. No one sets out dreaming about working in a forest of cubicles, just making it through the week. I've spent a lot of time mulling over what makes me happy -- really bone-deep, I-could-do-this-for-a-million-years-and-wake-up-with-a-smile-on-my-face-happy. One of the few passions that fit that criteria is baking. I l-o-v-e baking. As anyone who's looked at my twitter stream knows, I bake a lot. The kitchen is my happy place***. I've named my KitchenAid and have more muffin tins than any one person should be able to own. And lately, I've been dreaming about opening up my own bake shop.

I've been feeling down recently, for various reasons. I decided the best thing to do to fight off the blues would be to use up the giant bag of lemons and the pint of blueberries in the fridge and make some muffins. I love muffins, especially when people say they're healthier than doughnuts in the morning. They're mini-cakes for breakfast, you guys. Anyway, I found this lovely recipe on smittenkitchen and decided to give it a try.

I love lemons.

Lemon rind + sugar = lemon sugar!

Little sapphires

Only I screwed it up. By a lot.
I kept trying to course-correct based on my meager knowledge of baking science (thank you, Alton Brown), but eventually I just tossed the lot into the oven, fingers crossed.

I can't be the only one who thinks these look vaguely nipple-like

Not so much when there's four berries ...
at least, I hope your nipples don't look like this!

And they turned out just fine.
Sure, it could have been a bit more lemony, but they were nice and moist and the blueberry the perfect foil for the citrus-sweet of the cake.

Fresh out of the oven!

Berry ooze

I'm slowly realizing that baking is going to be my career. Dreaming about cupcake flavours or new twists on cannoli fillings -- that's what makes me wake up with a smile on my face. Peddling strollers and eco-friendly diapers to gather enough cash to make The Nifty Bakeshop (working title) happen is simply a cut through the brush.

Glamour shot of one of the mini-muffins

Big, bronze beauty

The muffin version of Rob and Big

So, interwebs, that's what's been going on with me. What about you? What's new in your world? Tell me; I'd love to hear something lovely.

--amanda



_________________________
*My God that is a catchy acronym. Say it out loud, and I bet you $1 that someone says "God bless you!" and hands you a tissue. BlofoNOiP, perhaps? No; that sounds vaguely dirty and drug-related.
**My stock answer: "I plan on working for whomever pays me." So far, so good.
***I choose my choice, third-wave feminists!

Bad Blogger

Dear No One in Particular,

I know, I'm a bad blogger. I'm sorry for disappearing, but I'm dealing with a ton and a half of stressful mess right now and it doesn't look like it's going to let up soon.
I graduate on Saturday (!!!! Oh God, I need a paper bag to breathe into) but have two humongous finals to deal with before I get to don my green cap and gown* and parade about in front of a thousand of my classmates and all of their friends and families. On top of that, my parents (and the Boy's parents, natch) are coming over not only to watch the ceremony, but to "help" us pack up our apartment. We're tenatively slated to leave Hawaii (and ne'er to return ... maybe) by 6 June, which is right around the corner and creeping closer every time I look around our place and see piles of stuff to be sold off and walls to be painted and I can hear the arguments already Oh Christ's Holy Pita Pocket I'M DONE ALREADY.

So yeah, my personal life is a bit of stress-riddled mess right now, allowing for very little blogging time. I have posts all lined up, but no time to finish them. Hopefully I'll catch a break and find a quiet moment to slap something up here, but until then, who knows.

I do have some news that directly affects the wonderful people who read and comment on this drivel! I'm planning a giveaway -- a true giveaway in the sense that there's no contest, just me sending a care package. I'm working out some of the kinks, but it boils down to the fact that my readership is tiny, yet incredibly thoughtful. You have no idea how excited I get when I see someone out there feels so compelled to read and comment on what I've written. So, as a demonstration of my gratitude, I'll send you a little giftbox filled with some of my favourite things from Hawaii.
Details to come soon, I promise!

xoxo,
amanda



______________________
*Yes, we have to wear green graduation robes. Effing GREEN. What university requires coloured robes? I thought black was de rigueur? Oh, added bonus: throw my honour cords and stoles over the forest-coloured polyester and voila! Amanda-Christmas tree.

What's in a Name?

Dear No One in Particular,

Last night, the Boy and I stayed up until 2:30 am talking about baby names.

Hold on -- let me be perfectly clear, in case someone I know finds this: I am not pregnant. I am so far from having children, I am not joking. I don't think I can handle a dog right now, much less a miniature human.

Ok, moving on. Back to the story.

So, for whatever reason, we were talking about what we would name our totally hypothetical future children. I love the Boy, but he's not allowed to name anything. He came up with some really awful options* but my favourite was far and away "Christian" for a boy.

The Boy's last name has very strong ties to the Roman Coliseum. Normally, this is just a neat little factoid about his family history. Yet with the first name "Christian" tacked onto it, it becomes a slightly different story: it is believed that many early Christians were executed in the Coliseum, oddly making it a holy, yet gruesome, place for modern Christians.

The hypothetical name is totally hilarious when taken as a whole, considering the Boy's surname and its connotations to the Coliseum's bloody history. Naturally, the Boy was delighted by the history lesson our hypothetical son's name would bear, especially since this apparently isn't common knowledge? So while most would think nothing of it, a handful would consider us to be either totally insensitive or big fans of gallows humour. I agreed so long as his middle name would be Leo.

Now I can't help but think that if our names shape who we are, what kind of person would a son saddled with such a name be like?

--amanda



____________________
*One of the suggestions? Wyatt. Totally serious. Yes, that would be a perfect name, especially if we have another boy named Jethro. They can play dueling banjos and and run around in overalls with no shirts on.

Polling the World

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm graduating from university in May and I realised that, while sprucing up my resume and ordering my cap and gown, I forgot to order calling cards. Since I am a very high-strung little lap dog with an overactive imagination, I freaked. What if, while I'm schmoozing at a party, I meet the curator for the SFMOMA? I frantically pondered. Or better yet, what if I'm magically introduced to someone who has all the right connections to the Smithsonian, and is willing to pull some strings for me, but only if I am able to provide my contact information on a snazzy 2" x 3.5" card? WHAT IF.
How could I possibly let such a not-at-all-fantastic opportunity slide by?

Luckily, I spent my entire day sifting through old magazines, and RealSimple (a highly underrated magazine) presented a winsome answer to my problem: iomoi.com

Now, I am a total novice at this whole calling card business. My only reference point (apart from seeing my parents exchange them with business associates) comes from the Boy's father, who had some printed for the Boy for $20. They looked like they fell off the back of a truck after having been designed by a blind man who learned English only recently as a 4th language. So I have no idea if iomoi's prices are good, I only know they have some pretty products. Please, please let me know if you know of equally stylish, hip -- and above all -- cheap calling cards.

After spending approximately an hour scrolling, hemming and hawing, and after consulting the Boy, my lawyer, and my housekeeper, I still can't make a decision.
So now I turn to you, with open arms, asking for advice. Which one do you like?

Option A:

[iomoi.com]

Option B:

[iomoi.com]

Option C:

[iomoi.com]

Or Option D, something completely different!

I'm obviously looking for something eye-catching and memorable. In my world, this translates to bright colours and/or quirky design. I like the symmetry of Option B, but the pattern of Option A; I'm totally in love with the dapper seahorse of Option C, but is it professional enough? Or does it look like a child's toy?

So, help a girl out and leave suggestions in the comments? I'd appreciate it a million times over.

--amanda