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

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.

The Big Eat Challenge

Dear No One in Particular,

I have long established that I am a foodie of the highest order.

Once upon a time, I thought about starting a food blog of my very own, but decided that a) try as I might, I am not nearly pretentious enough and b) I am too picky an eater for most food snobs to take me seriously.
To be fair, I will try just about anything twice. I came up with the theory that it takes two bites (or sips) to get the true measure of a dish (or drink). If it's still gross beyond that, then I can refuse to eat it ever again.
This theory has gotten me pretty far and added some interesting dishes to my love/hate lists. Pork blood stew? YUM. Barbecued chicken intestine? Meh; a little too chewy. Wasabi? DO NOT WANT.
Naturally, there are somethings I absolutely refuse to eat under most circumstances. I very rarely eat fish or pork. I refuse to eat any melon or cherry, and mashed potatoes make me gag. Seriously, just thinking about them makes me dry heave. I hate pickles and their slightly-less-evil kissing-cousin, the cucumber. Beyond that: what's for dinner?

Luckily, I live in the gastronomic capital of the universe, so I can happily entertain my taste buds whenever a craving strikes. Given my intense love of food and of the Bay Area, you can imagine my total delight at finding the 7x7 list of 100 Things to Try Before You Die, San Francisco edition.

I had been knocking around the idea of adding a weekly foodie feature here on Blog for No One, but didn't know exactly what it would entail. Now, thanks to 7x7, I do. I'm going to eat my way through the list, blogging as I go. Very Julie/Julia, only with more eating and less dish washing.
I've eaten quite a few things on the list already (soup dumplings, spring rolls, prime rib -- tangent: I had my 21st birthday dinner at the House of Prime Rib and got spectacularly drunk on lemon drop martinis), but I'm going to start with a clean slate to better aid the blogging. I also reserve the right to switch up menu items, so long as they maintain the spirit of the original recommendation; I don't eat pork, so I'll be trying the carne asada tacos at La Taqueria, I'm more interested in Humphry Slocombe than Bi-Rite, etc.

I technically started this challege 2 weeks ago with a quick trip to the Ferry Building, but I think I'll save that for a later post. Like the Julie/Julia project, this will most strongly impact my wallet and my waistline. Unlike the Julie/Julia project, I will keep whining to a minimum and not regale you with tales of visits to my gynecologist's office.

Bon appetit!
amanda

Working for the Weekend

Dear No One in Particular,

I've been in a foul mood recently.
I often find myself suffering from a case of the grumblies for no reason other than I want to feel as though the world owes me a living, but that really isn't the case this time. Believe me when I say I wish all my problems were in my head and not out there in the real world, poking at me and pestering me.

I try not to take things for granted -- after all, my health is relatively good, I have a solid job and (for the most part) fantastic coworkers, lovely friends, an even lovelier boyfriend -- but you know how things can just snowball and all of a sudden you find yourself tumbling in a world of white and the only way out is to spit and pray for Beethoven to pop up with a case of brandy?
Speaking of which, do you know how much it costs to register a vehicle in California? Enough to make me want to go back to Hawaii, where their vehicle registration process makes sense and is inexplicably cheaper. And smog inspections? On a car that is less than 3 years old and is made to produce low emissions? Give me a fucking break, California. By the time I'm done paying to have my beloved car re-registered here, I'll have personally taken care of the state budget's deficit.

Honestly, I could go on all day, bitching and moaning about how I am now broker than broke (THANKS A LOT, CALIFORNIA. I wasn't saving that money for rent anyway), but then you'd probably want to strangle me with your bare hands, and really, I wouldn't blame you. Not one bit.

I've been told over and over again that "when God shuts a door, he leaves open a window". Can we just discuss for a moment how utterly impractical this is? Have you ever locked yourself out of a house? I have, and climbing through windows may sound like fun, but breaking and entering is not an adventure worth exploring. I feel like a more apt description would be God put the key to the locked door in a hide-a-key rock and he didn't tell you where it's hidden. And you're in a Japanese rock garden. Start turning stones over; you're bound to find it, so long as you look carefully.

This is my roundabout way of saying "Life kind of sucks right now, but I'm going to focus on the positive and try to make things better, especially since it could suck so much worse". So, let me tell you about my fantastic weekend.

Normally, my weekend could be summed up in a couple short sentences: I slept in late. I watched a movie and read blogs. I may have eaten something delicious. The end.
But this weekend was different! It was adventure-filled and fun! I socialized with real people instead of hiding in my room! I took pictures!

Friday:
The Boy took me to the Sonoma Mission Inn, which is apparently owned by Fairmont Hotels. Can I just say I had no idea the Fairmont was a chain? Not that it matters.
The hotel spa offers a "good neighbour discount" to those that live within 100 miles of the Mission Inn, allowing them to use the spa facilities for a meagre $25/day.

Knowing I would be in bougie-yuppie territory, I dressed up like Doris Day.

We brought a picnic lunch to share while lounging poolside, but never ate it. Apparently, the hotel's small cafe that serves overpriced salads and smoothies frowns on outside food being consumed in their midst.

Lounge chairs on a balcony overlooking the pool.

I did nom on some of the snacks we brought up here while reading book 3 of the Southern Vampire Mysteries (a.k.a. the True Blood books). This is also where I realized that the girl that best mirrors my mental image of Sookie Stackhouse is, in fact, Kendra from Girls Next Door. I know.

Just about every doorway/arch had some ivy creeping through:

So romantic.

I didn't take any pictures of the hotel's mineral-hot spring pools, mostly because I didn't want to be a creeper skulking around, snapping photos of middle-aged yuppies.
I spent the majority of the day floating around on water noodles, my head tipped back into the water so warm it felt like a bathtub, listening to a string symphony playing underwater.*

Later that night, I got a message from my favourite cousin, Mel**, asking if I wanted to go out. Naturally, I said yes; the last time we went out, a Berkeley hippie asked us if we wanted half of his watermelon. That's not a euphemism: he was sitting in the back of his pickup truck, eating a watermelon and genuinely wanted us to have the other half.

The Boy and I met her at Butter, my new favourite bar in San Francisco. Located in crazy-popular SOMA, Butter is a genius white trash bar. They serve drinks like the Tang-tini and snacks like deep-fried pb&j and Twinkies. You want to go now, right? Unfortunately, the "ironic" nature of Butter means it's insanely popular with the hipster crowd. Apparently, a gaggle of the hip were throwing a moustache party that night. I would ask if anyone knows the significance of a moustache party, but I figure we're all better for not knowing.

Regardless, the unwashed irony of hipness didn't throw off the night. Mel ended up getting me my first ever Jello shot for free, after trying (and failing) to help one of the bartenders. Related: I don't like Jello shots.

I figure this picture is fair game, since we both look like idiots.
(Also, don't try to enlarge it. It won't work. )

The best -- and most blasphemous --conversation of the night centered around us talking about getting fresh ink.
Mel: I'm going to get 'redemptor' tattooed.
Amanda: Oh God, you're serious about that?
Mel: Why the hell wouldn't I be?
Amanda: *shakes head in disbelief*
Mel: I AM THE REDEMPTOR. That makes you John the Baptist!
Amanda: Why, because I'm six months older?
Mel: You should get a John the Baptist tattoo! That way, we match.
Amanda: I'm going to pass on that. Does this mean some bitch is going to have my head cut off?
Mel: *shrugs her shoulders* I'm just saying .... pave the way. 35 is coming up real fast.

Saturday:
Wine and Cheese Parties are something of a tradition with my girlfriends and I. For the past 5 years we've been flung across the country, meeting only when school breaks for summer and winter vacations. Every summer we would have a Wine and Cheese Party every week, weather permitting. Now that we're all back in the Bay Area, it's been oddly difficult to schedule a party, since it's now our job schedules that get in the way. Miraculously, we were all free Saturday evening, so we celebrated by throwing our first party of the summer.

We always hold Wine and Cheese parties at the Berkeley Albany Bulb. Apparently, it's a landfill? I obviously know nothing about the pretty little peninsula that I've been frequenting for years. It's a wonderful place to walk your dog or throw an outdoor picnic; it's quintessentially Berkeley, filled with grafitti and makeshift art.

We always -- ALWAYS -- hike out to what my friend L calls "The Castle". It's a bizarre mishmash house-like structure made of rebar and concrete.
It's difficult to get to, unless you know exactly where it is.



One of the better shots I got of The Castle. Up top are my gorgeous friends, N and L. M is the lovely girl waving from the doorway and ... the back of the Boy. Uh, none of these people know about the blog (Boy excluded), so let's not tell them, kay? Good deal.

Anyway, we always eat on top of The Castle, since the inside is small and usually littered with broken bottles. Every surface is painted in bright, bold graffiti, even the small concrete bench sitting below the sole window.



We sat and talked, eating bread and brie, watching the sun set across the San Francisco Bay.

M: "I like the way the clouds look sun-dappled. Like a palomino.
*laughs*
The sky looks like a dirty horse's hindquarters!"

It was a lovely couple of days, and a wonderful way to end the week.

I hope to have more of them.

--amanda


_______________________
*You read that right -- one of the pools plays music underwater!
**Quick warning: while I find Mel's blog HILARIOUS, her writing can -- and probably will -- offend more sensitive readers. Everything's SFW; just don't read it aloud while children are in the room. ***
***I'm pretty sure hers is the only food blog that requires such a disclaimer. (You're totally interested now, aren't you?)

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]

Beauty Misadventures: Smooth Away Layers of Skin!

Dear No One in Particular,

I am a huge fan of infomericals. I think they're hilarious, and if they're good (or at the very least, ubiquitous), I'll consider buying whatever they're shilling. I blame this on my mother, who is Billy Mays's dream customer. She'll buy almost anything, so long as she can convince herself she really does need a special chair to help her wiggle her way to a smaller waist. But this isn't about her -- not yet, at least.

Ok some background information: I am a hirsute lady. I'm not about to join a sideshow or anything, but I've always been aware of -- and therefore painfully self-conscious of -- my general furriness. No joke, I've met men with less arm hair than me.*
Only recently have I adopted an "Eh, fuck it" attitude about these things, but that changed when I saw the informercial for that best-selling European depilatory product, Smooth Away. $10 and I can have the hairless arms I've always wanted?! Jiminy Cricket was right: when your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme. My request? Not looking like Teen Wolf.

About a week after my television beamed video of some toothy dame gleefully rubbing her hair off her arm into my living room, I traipsed into my local As Seen On TV store and was greeted with the glorious sight of a Smooth Away display. I eagerly grabbed one of the shiny pink-and-white boxes, daydreaming of my soon-to-be naked arms.

When I got home, I opened up the package to find a little blue plastic oval with something that looked like fine-grain sandpaper stuck to one side. It reminded me a bit of a curry comb, only more industrial.
I decided to try it out on my legs before I moved to virgin territory. I followed the directions, gently rubbing the Smooth Away in circular motions over my skin. It took a bit of time, but it did what it advertised: it removed the hair and left smooth, if slightly grey, skin in its place.
So emboldened, I went to town on my forearms. Again, it took some time (probably somewhere in the vicinity of 45 minutes) and a lot of effort, but my arms! They were bare! I danced around my apartment singing "Nooo hair! Nooo hair!" for about five minutes before the burning set in.

That's right: burning.

I don't know why I was so surprised (although, in my defense, the ad did say it was "painless"), since I was rubbing my hair off with "superfine crystals". My arms hurt so badly, the Boy suggested I apply some aloe vera to soothe the irritated skin. I don't know what happened, but "soothe" the aloe did not. It felt like I had dipped my arms into carbolic acid. I spent the rest of the night with ice packs on my forearms, whimpering about what went wrong.

We eventually chalked it up to applying too much pressure when rubbing with the Smooth Away pad. It sounded plausible enough, so a week later, after the burning subsided and the hair grew back, I (idiotically) tried again. Despite my best efforts to be as gentle as possible, the burning returned, and this time, it brought friends! Along with the pain, redness and rash decided to join the party. More weeping, more ice packs, etc. I decided that the Smooth Away people were sadists -- rich sadists, no doubt -- and liars, so I ended up tossing the whole lot.

Two weeks later, I get a call from my mother.**

Mom: You know that hair remover you bought? Rub Off? Hair Away?
Me: Close; Smooth Away. What about it?
Mom: I saw it at Walgreens and decided to try it!
Me: What? Why? I told you about what happened to me.
Mom: Yes, but that was you. I wanted to try it anyway. So, I bought it a while ago but I forgot I had it until last night. I wanted to try it on my moustache.***
Me: Oh God.
Mom: So I rubbed like the thing said and it hurt!
Me: Why didn't you believe me? I told you.
Mom: [swears that I shall not translate] And then, when I woke up this morning, it was all red! Really, really RED. And I had little ... you know, spots? Like pimples. ALL ON MY UPPER LIP.
Me: *can't breathe, I'm laughing so hard*
Mom: WHY YOU LAUGH? DON'T LAUGH. I had pimples! RED PIMPLES all over my lip. I didn't know what to do! Oh God, Aman, I had a big meeting this afternoon, and I was talking to, you know, a manager, and she couldn't stop staring at my lip! She was giving me this ... look ... like she was so grossed out. She was so grossed out.
Me: *gasping for breath* Stop! I have to go to the bathroom!
Mom: Oh. My. God, I looked AWFUL. It kept getting worse as the day went on, too. And that's not the worst part.
Me: You're kidding.
Mom: I was talking to my coworker, and I told her about the Smooth Away, and how it made my skin blister and she said "Oh, thank God. I was going to ask my husband to get me some tonight, and now I know to stay away." BECAUSE OF ME.
Me: She owes you $10.
Mom: I'm the opposite of a billboard for Smooth Away!

Moral of the story: Smooth Away is terrible. I can't get over how something so simple caused so much pain. For all the irritation, I'd rather wax and have the results last longer.

Anyone else try it and have a positive experience?

--amanda

____________________
*I've also met men who insist on pointing this out. Yes, I have hair on my arms, thank you for pointing that out. You will have intense pain in your groin in 3 ... 2 ...
** She'll probably kill me for telling this story, so shhh! She already thinks I'm the Bad Seed.
***Her word, not mine.

Things I Haven't Bought, But Still Love

Dear No One in Particular,

Since I've found myself sans employment and with more free time than I know what to do with, I've decided to be slightly more productive and not wile the hours away by watching Top Model marathons on cable television. Because honestly? Ty-Ty is rotting my brain. The other day, the Boy was telling me a story and I picked up on some random detail and responded with "You know, that reminds me of when I was 16, 17 and a young model in Paris and I was all alone and the girls were so mean, but you know what? I stuck with it and now I'm here and I'm a top model, coaching all you girls to be top models, too, especially if you can smile with your eyes. Who wants a weave?"
Yeah, that was the exact moment I knew I needed a new way to fill the hours.

So I'm going to implement an actual schedule for Blog For No One in Particular. I'll do my best to post something interesting at least twice a week, so there'll be no more month-long stretches between verbose essays on the state of popular culture as regurgitated by the Interwebs.

All righty then. The credit for this post comes from the lovely Inkytwist at Lemon Love. She recently posted a list of things she's got a yen for. So inspired, I decided to create a list of things that kindle the fire of consumerism deep inside me.

Let's go Windows shopping, shall we?

• Any necklace from Leviticus Jewelry. I absolutely love this shop and would eagerly cherish any bauble tossed my way. I am quite enamoured with the Love Letter and Secret Detective necklaces, but the Shark Attack necklace gave me a case of the vapours.
  

Someone get my swooning bottle!

• To make a decision about my calling cards. Yes, really. This completely unimportant bit of utter nonsense is still driving me up the wall. I can't make a decision to save my life, and I'm still waffling about the design. Really, this should read: some Xanax and a pin the tail on the calling card game.

• The perfect pink lipstick.
  

MAC feeds my drag queen sensibilities.

I'm hapa, which means I have a hell of a time finding flattering makeup. Lipstick, on me, tends to go one of three ways: a) it doesn't show up at all; b) it looks like I've borrowed the tube from a porn star; c) it looks 80's-tastic bright fuschia. None of these are looks I am aiming for.

• To watch Singin' in the Rain. Simple pleasures, folks, simple pleasures.

Cyd Charisse was a goddess. Don't let anyone tell you different.

• Hugh Jackman. I suffered through that festering sore, Australia*, simply because he starred in it. The least he can do is thank me by showing up on my doorstep. Shirtless. As Wolverine.
  

I mean, honestly.
Is that swooning bottle still on hand?

• The new(ish) Lily Allen CD. Yeah, it's been out a while now, but I still haven't gotten it. I adore Lily and her adorable girl/foul mouth shtick.

I love that she needs to stand on tip-toe to smack the paparazzo.
Adorable AND in need of anger management, bless her wee heart.

• The Pleats dress in Eggplant from Stop Staring! Or this dress. Or this dress. Or this dress. Or this one. I'm built along the lines of my hero, Nigella Lawson**, so structured dresses are key to making my curves stand out. I love Stop Staring!'s vintage styling. It makes it easier for me to channel Joan Holloway, my other hero.

Nigella is Love.

• Black ballet flats. For someone who loves shoes, I don't own a pair of basic black ballet flats. I've been looking for a pair for, oh, a year now and I haven't found one that fits my specifications. I want a pair that show off some toe cleavage (ugh, that phrase), are well-crafted, and have some support to them. Any recommendations?

Hello ... is it you I'm looking for?

That'll be it for me. Anything caught your eye? What are you craving? What can't you live without?

--amanda

______________________________
*Baz Luhrman is an immensely talented director, but a little heavy-handed with the schmaltz as a screenwriter. Nicole Kidman needs to put the Botox needle down; she's killing her career as she freezes her face.
**Only I'm much shorter, as if you shrunk Nigella in the dryer instead of taking her to the dry cleaners like the care label said.

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

Le'chayim!

Dear No One in Particular,

Am I the only one who thinks hamentaschen look vaguely yonic?

[source]

That? Is not a man's hat.

--amanda

[ETA:]

Not the only one! Here's a blog that discusses the ridiculousness of tri-cornered hats in ancient Shushan and how the characteristic "hidden" filling of the hamentash mirror the theme of hiding in Esther's story. Another blog links to a Jewish feminist take on the Georgia O'Keefe of cookies.

Also: apparently, if you google the phrase "yonic hamentaschen" this blog appears in the oh-so-covetable 5th position. Needless to say, this will amuse me for DAYS.

*insert high-pitched noise here*

OMFG YOU GUYS:

[full story]

A PINK DOLPHIN. A FREAKING PINK DOLPHIN.

I'm pretty sure that I wished this majestic creature into existence on my 6th birthday, along with a purple unicorn with a glitter horn. Only in my wildest Barbie-Hello Kitty-Princess-Lisa Frank dreams did I think it would come true! The only way this could be better is if sparkles and rainbows were expelled from its blowhole.


Now. Who wants to buy me plane tickets to Louisiana? Some lucky bastard has seen Princess Fancy Flippers "40 to 50 times in the time since the original sighting". I want to see it once. Just once! So I might die a happy, happy little girl.

--amanda

[edit:] FIXED IT!

[cornify.com]

Beauty Misadventures: MyChelle, MyBelle

Dear No One in Particular,

I have seriously troubled skin. You know those ProActive commercials that feature teenage boys* who traded in their dignity for some cash? The ones who are all pits, and whiteheads, and scary cystic acne that makes you cringe just to look at them? Yeah, I have skin like them. And I've had bad skin for a long, long time.

I've tried just about every thing to help calm my acne-ridden, greasy skin: ProActive, which served the same purpose as poking a sleeping dragon with a very sharp stick -- it just made it angrier; Retin-A, which helped for a while, but did little-to-nothing for my scars and giant pores; Neutrogena products, which may as well have been pure water for all the results they provided.

I recently stopped using Retin-A for various reasons and my skin has staged a rebellion of epic standards. So I decided to return to a line skin care products that has worked wonders for me in the past: MyChelle Dermaceuticals.

I found them a couple of years ago, while trolling the aisles of a local Elephant Pharmacy. I figured, I'd gone the intensive chemical route to no avail, so why not try a kinder, gentler, more natural route? I've since discovered that the less I try to beat my skin into submission, the more likely it is to calm down on its own. Enter MyChelle.

MyChelle is an all-natural, paraben and pthalate free, vegetarian friendly, cruelty-free, all-around good for you line of "dermaceuticals". Essentially, they take a "non-toxic" approach to skin care, opting for plant-based ingredients to better revitalise and heal skin. It's a feel-good, good-for-you, crunchy-happy-people attitude that's easy to get behind, especially since their products work.

As I previously mentioned, I have terrible acne and extreme combination skin -- the T-Zone looks like the Exxon-Valdez wrecked all over my face, while my cheeks are flaky and desert-dry. I opted to control my biggest problems (acne and oil), following MyChelle's suggested skin care routine**. Here are my findings:

• White Cranberry Cleanser: this used to be just the Cranberry Cleanser, but all of MyChelle has undergone a major reformulation/makeover, like the Swan. This was the first product I ever tried, and it made me a believer. It cleared up my acne right quick; quicker than one would expect with an all-natural line. I did find that continuing to use it after my skin had cleared made my skin really tight and dry. Should this happen again, I'd probably work a gentler cleanser into my routine and phase this one out until my skin flares.
  
• Clear Skin Serum: I incorporated this into my routine out of desperation. I wanted my acne gone 2 years ago, and was willing to pay any amount to see it out the door. This stuff was surprisingly strong. You only need a tiny bit; it's very thin, and very potent. True story: I saw a dramatic difference in the size, amount, and intensity of my acne the very first time I used it.
  
• Fruit Enzyme Mist: a total waste of money. I have no idea why people continue to use toners; I have no idea what purpose they serve. I was told, very adamantly and by a large number of people, that I absolutely had to use a toner after using the cleanser or else my face would fall off and the universe would collapse. So, not wanting to shoulder the blame for the downfall of all life forms ever, I bought some. And immediately regretted it. You may as well rub sugar water on your face for all the good this stuff does. It goes on heavier than you would think and it made my face feel sticky, like I rubbed sugar water all over it. It does have one thing going for it: it smells really good. But that's all.
  
• Oil Free Grapefruit Cream: "cream" is a bit of a misnomer in this situation. It's actually a very thin lotion, which works well for me. It does a fair job of reducing my sebum production, and it also works to clear my skin. It's a nice moisturiser to have in my arsenal, but I'm not about to sing praise and hallelujah from the mountaintops. Also: it smells nice, which is important in a moisturiser.
  
• Incredible Pumpkin Peel: This, I will sing praise for. It is AMAZING and I will end you if you try and take it from me. It's not perfect, but for all the wonderous things it has done to my skin, I am willing to overlook the faults. First, it burns. Don't let anyone tell you it simply "tingles". No, it's a distinct burning. But, on the flipside, you'll get used to it in no time. I can leave it on for upwards of 10 minutes (although you probably wouldn't want to) and I don't need to put a leather strap in my mouth to deal with the pain. Another important piece of information: it's not a peel. I don't know who comes up with the names for these things, but you don't peel it off. It's a simple mask. I guess it's like a chemical peel? I don't know but lord it is good. My skin is smoother, my pores are smaller, my acne less furious and plentiful. Baby ass skin, people. Also: it smells like pumpkin pie. Good-smelling products seems to be a theme with MyChelle, and I'm not going to fight them on it.
  

Ok, here's a piece of advice you may or may not want to follow, depending on how high your pain tolerance/how dumb/desperate you are: after washing off the heavenly Pumpkin Peel, slather on the Clear Skin Serum. I know I said that the peel burns by itself, but it's not that bad. Well, the combination of the two is just tortuous. I could deal with the peel, but when I slapped some serum on my freshly exfoliated baby skin? I was fanning my face like an idiot (which I was), begging "DEAR LORD TAKE ME HIGHER".

But.

My skin never looked better.

Clear skin overnight. Like my face had miraculously been transplanted with Freida Pinto's, it was so good.
Naturally, I've done this many times and every time I found myself doing the same thing: fanning my firey face praying to be lifted up. And every morning, my skin looked amazing. Totally worth it, in my sick mind.

The big, big downfall to MyChelle? You have to be Warren Buffet to afford it.
I am not, but I am willing to use whatever money I have to maintain/continue my quest for good skin. There is a tiny consolation, however: their products will last you for.ev.er. It took me about 5 months of twice-daily use to use up a tiny bottle of cleanser, and, 1 year later, I'm still eeking out my grapefruit cream.

Despite the exorbitant prices, MyChelle Dermaceutical products are worth it. They work fast, they work hard, and they're good for you.

Totally worth it, in my (sick) mind.

--amanda





-------------------------------
*Speaking from personal observation, teenage boys tend to have worse skin than girls. Probably because grimy bastards don't invest in decent skincare.
**Yes, I used all of these products every week. The majority were used both AM and PM. I should have stock in the company.

Mele Kalikimaka

Dear No One in Particular,

Merry Christmas*, one and all! I hope you're enjoying the holiday season, and nothing but love to you and yours.

Well, I'm finally back in California and am freezing my booty off. Yes, I know that there are parts of the country blanketed in snow, but it's damn cold for someone who lives in a tropical climate! Which leads me to why I'm posting on Christmas night. I should be spending time with my family, roasting chestnuts and singing carols or some Hallmark nonsense. Well, my parents arrived about 2 days ago from their vacation in the Philippines (can you tell we don't like to be cold?) and they're jetlagged out of their minds. They're both passed out on the couch right now, snoring up some very festive harmonies. I'm stuck in the dining room listening to them because I, uh, blew a fuse that blacked out half the house. In my quest to warm up my icebox/bedroom, I plugged in two space heaters and set them to "Death Valley in July". This, coupled with the TV, clocks, cellphone charger and laptop is probably what did the fuse in. Fun part is, no one can get to the fuse box; it's in the garage, which is in the half of the house that lost power. So, no lights until the morning.

Quick change of subject: not that I'm one to brag about my presents, or anything, but my mother, in her infinite wisdom gave me a Kindle for Christmas! I've been on the fence about the Kindle and it's electronic book reader bretheren for a while now: I really like the tactile pleasure of books: the way they smell, the feel of turning pages, the glossy covers. Also, I read so often that I rarely purchase books; I'm a frequent visitor to my local libraries, and harbour dreams of one day being a librarian myself. But, like I said, I read a lot. I'm rarely without a book, which really weighs down my purse and puts limits on which books I can tote around. The Kindle really frees up space in my bag and is light enough to be a non-issue, so I'm psyched out of my mind. I just purchased a couple of books, so a real, in-depth review will be up shortly.
First impressions: it's quick and light, which is great, but the layout of the page-buttons is maddeningly terrible.

So, I hope your holidays were bright and merry and full of food and love, blogosphere. If you're somewhat lonely and have a spare moment, come share a story with me!

--amanda


---------------------------------------------------
*Also: Happy Chanukah, Happy Kwanzaa, and/or whatever holiday you happen to celebrate.

International Dance Party

This is totally great. I'm going to now document my travels by dancing spasmodically on film. Extra points if I can get locals to join in.

--amanda

Beauty Misadventures: Scents for the Streetwalker in Your Life!

Dear No One in Particular,

I've been wanting to blog for a while now, but I'm currently wrapped up with a ton of school work, specifically a 15 page/4,000 word (whichever comes first) essay on the role of women in the Islamic Revolution. Fascinating stuff, no doubt, but not fun to write about -- at least not to that length. I have a couple of features all lined up, but they'll have to wait for a bit longer.

I'm taking a quick break from my marathon writing session* and browsing my new favourite website, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. I'm a bit obsessed with perfume right now, and am trying to find a signature scent. BPAL's names really tread the line between quirky and obnoxious (a little too OMG so goth! for me), but themes are cute, and the selection is bananas -- almost to the point where I overload and want to lie down for a bit before looking at the lists and lists of oils available.
But lo! They have "imps' ears": 32 oz sample vials of their perfumes for the low price of $3.50 each or $20 for a selection of 6 scents. Fabulosity for ficklehearts like me. So, utilising my best friends, the search box and MakeupAlley.com, I begin to seek out 6 possible perfumes.

Sounds like fun, no? Um, kind of. Here's a list of the scents I've shortlisted for my shopping cart:

• French Love
• Sacred Whore of Babylon
• Loralei
• Delight
• Rapture
• Old Venice
• Phantasm
• Cheshire Cat
• Succubus
• 51
  

Apparently, I want to smell like a French bordello. **
Or at least like a whore. With a predilection for Alice in Wonderland and alien-based conspiracy theories.

I guess ladies of the night really like jasmine and neroli? Because that's what I was searching for. I'm looking mostly for a complex white floral, but what comes up are skanky scents christened with the names of floozies.

Has anyone else out there tried BPAL? Have a signature scent you just can't live without? Do tell! The next time I'm out and about, I don't want to be solicited when all I'm doing is waiting for the light to change.

--amanda


--------------
*My sincerest apologies if this update makes little-to-no sense. I'm already half a bottle of red to the wind, and I'm a bit of a lightweight.
**Not true. Very much not true.

El Perro sin Pelo

Dear No One in Particular,

I have a 6 page paper due tomorrow, exactly 1/6th of which is complete. Naturally, I am procrastinating as hard as I possibly can, specifically by researching the differences between viringos and xolos.*

I justify this by saying that it's actually an educational experience, since most articles on the dogs are in Spanish and it helps me working on my Spanish language skills.

...yeah, I didn't buy it either.

--amanda

An (Early) Christmas Letter

Dear Santa,

I know I've spent the last few years asking you for a doggy and/or pony for Christmas, and I would get pissy when you didn't deliver (really sorry about tipping off the IRS and UN on you re: elf-slaves and back taxes. Really sorry), but I really had my heart set on a new pet.

I'm more mature this year, and I've been a very good girl. So this year, I'm asking you for a baby pygmy hippo.

WOOK AD IT:



You can't deny me the adorbs.

Thanks and hope Mrs Claus and the slaves elves are doing well. Give the reindeer hugs and sugar cookies for me!

--amanda

La Cocinetta

Dear No One in Particular,

It's pretty well-acknowledged that I don't work well with most standard kitchens. I'm wee, see, and most counters are about 3-4 inches too tall for me. If I were to have a dream kitchen, most normal people would have to squat to wash their hands.

Which is why I think Pottery Barn might have a solution to my problem: a gourmet kitchen for children.*

Ok, ok: it's actually too small for me.** I feel like Goldilocks. Perhaps I should just buy some fabulous supplies from retail heaven, aka Anthropologie. Ooh, sale section!


--amanda

---------------
*First of all: where the hell was this when I was a kid? Not at Toys R Us, I assure you. Second of all: who the hell has $899 to spend on toys for their children? Please, come forward. With that kind of money, you can single-handedly bailout the economy. No new taxes!

**Yes, I busted out the measuring tape to check. Don't judge.

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

Beauty Misadventures

Dear No One in Particular,

Have you ever had one of those mornings when it's not so much that everything goes wrong, so much as it's the fact that the little things get screwy? Like a simple, everyday makeup routine results in panda eyes and Tammy Faye Bakker lashes? Yeah, I had one of those days yesterday.
I, like every other woman, am on the quest to find the Holy Grail of mascaras. I should admit here and now, I do not want natural-looking lashes. I want my lashes to be dramatically lush and long, like false lashes. My God-given eyelashes are actually really long and curly, but I don't think they're thick enough, and they're certainly not going to be mistaken for falsies any time soon.

Given my fondness for user-generated review sites, I frequent MakeupAlley.com for tips on buying my next tube. I had heard good things about my most recent purchase, Max Factor Volume Couture. It had a high rating, and after reading a couple of reviews, I figured it'd be worth a spin.

So. I put on some simple eye makeup and began to apply. First, the brush and handle are ridonkulously unwieldy. I've used Lash Blast without issue, but for some reason, I was not able to apply this mascara without getting black all over my eye. I looked like a five year old playing with Mommy's makeup. I'll forgive a lot for results, so I was willing to overlook the fact that it got more mascara on my eye than on my lashes if it gave me full lashes.
No forgiveness for Max, though. I must admit, I don't like rubber bristle brushes. I know they separate like nothing else, but this mascara gave me fat spider leg lashes. About 5 spider leg lashes per eye, to be exact, which I guess is better than the usual arachnoid, but worse for the human eye.

Normally, that would be the end of my beauty issues, but it didn't stop there. Apparently, like stank perfume and bad exes, bad mascara holds on long after you've washed your hands of it. I couldn't get this crud off. When mixed with some water, the spider legs decided to bond together, forming 2 huge spikes instead of 5 legs. Wonderous. On top of this, what mascara I was able to rub off had melted all around my eye and was spilling onto my cheeks. I looked like someone who just lost their shit and forgot they weren't wearing waterproof that day.

Frantic (because I was running late for school at this point), I spied a Prescriptives makeup remover sample hiding on my shelf, and smeared some it on my lashes. Holy hell, it felt like I just doused my eyes in battery acid. Whimpering like a beaten greyhound, I quickly washed off the carbolic acid that was burning holes in my face. Luckily, the makeup remover worked on the insidious mascara, and I was able to get most of the sludge off.
I realised a little too late that the bottle of calendula oil I have sitting on my vanity also works as a makeup remover. On the upside, I was able to use this to remove the traces of sad panda that the Prescriptives left behind.

Moral of the story: never test a new mascara while running late. Unless you like the Tammy Faye Panda look.

(Also, I am back on the hunt for the Holy Grail of mascaras. Should you chance on this site and have knowledge of one, please send word and let me know it exists.)

--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