Bake and Shake

Updates. Or -- Is it like that?

So I've been culling my wardrobe, which is exciting. There are a lot of emotions experienced, realizations, the major one being that Old Navy shirts with holes and grease stains are not doing anything for you, and more importantly, they're not doing anything for anyone else, either. I've got a lot of stuff I like, but the Old Navy shirt situation is out of control. I was not aware that I stole vegetable oil, drums of it, from behind restaurants at night, but I guess I do, and I guess I wear strictly Old Navy deep V-necks, tissue weight, perfect fit, while doing so. 

In a perfect world, I would look like Rihanna. All the time. Every day. Just asymmetrical follicles and skinny jeans, some flats, a tank. Tasteful, casual. But this world is not perfect, and in that outfit I would look okay, just not how I wished I would look in that outfit. And no outfit is good unless you look exactly like you want to look in it.

So that is my look, the one I aim for and have no expectations of fulfilling. I have a sister who can wear shit with wolves on it and look impeccable, purple tights and grey suede boots. You know? She doesn't really wear makeup, because she's Kim K. pretty. We are not the same girl. I call her current hairstyle of choice the Rue McClanahan. She could braid tampon applicators, feathers and owl pellets into her hair, cut into a one-sided mullet and crimped, and go hit up a concert and she'd end up on a party website, and the object of forty-seven Craigslist missed connections. Larvae could crawl around on her shoulder, and people would be like "That brooch is most legit."

So I am not her, and while I admire her old-lady sunglasses and wolf shirts, I don't want to wear them. I am also not a tall wisp who looks good with extra volume -- this is something that I was really sad about when circle skirts were in, those huge taffeta billows. I am short, super short. I'm having some hard times, right now, figuring out where I want to go on the fashion front. There's a good chance that I own way too many sequins.

Add to that the fact that my body has changed without my knowledge and I am losing enough weight to inspire uncomfortable comments from people ("Whoa. Whoa. How tiny are YOU?"), though I gained a good couple of pounds of it back because if forearm-long burritos stuffed with cheese, enchilada sauce, french fries and carne asada are mentioned at 3:00 am, at 3:30 am I will be eating one. With extra green salsa. And some of those pickled carrots that are randomly left out all day and have probably been touched by thirty-three Stranger Hands. A dude with a headband just walked in and ordered seven breakfast burritos. Isn't he a sad man, that many burritos, this late. Are you going to finish your burrito. Are you going to finish your burrito. What? I am AM calm. By the way, while you were in the bathroom I ate all the french fries and steak bits that had fallen from your burrito, then scraped the cheese bits off of the paper wrapping with my teeth.

So that is big, right now, the deciding to maybe make this official, make my weight loss an honest woman and work towards continuing it. Except I'm not sure how it happened in the first place, because I have not been eating well -- the burritos are only the first in a line of shameful food choices. And now I am considering cracking another off my list of food goals, and going vegan/gluten/sugar/caffeine-free for a month -- if I start in July, July first, I'll end it on the night of my 26th birthday, then spend the next day probably puking and shitting because the animal proteins, alcohol and wheat are back in town and they're rowdy. My body won't get the security/damage deposit back. And I'll still have all of August to enjoy iced coffee in the sunshine. Also -- Oprah did it.

In the personal life front, things have been just as crazy, just as confusing, just as sad and euphoric. ABBA's "Name of the Game" still describes way too much of my life, but I can't stop thinking about this dude and it is making me into a lady who is not okay. I feel like this is so intense because he has whatever sort of genetic pheromone molecular business my body craves, and that means that I get really, really feral around him? Some of the entries I wrote and did not publish because I care enough about you to spare you, I detailed the rowdy rowdy matter that just keeps me confounded, day and night. But the other night at our friend's house he was smiling so hard, I love his smile, and I kept liking how his face scuffed up against mine, like his cheek was studded with toothbrush bristles, and his arms wrapping around me so tight and staring at him as he let his teeth close gently around the tip of my right pinky, calm as could be. It was a good night, and the good nights make me forget the disappointing ones, or the confusing ones.

Yeah, it's like that.

Back soon with actual content, but before I go, thank you so much for all of the incredible skincare advice. I could not believe the response, or the helpful, informative offerings. I had no idea that many people read this site. But thank you, for the advice, and for reading.

My eyes, my eyes.

Oh hey, I'm twenty-five and just now realizing that shit is GOING DOWN on my face that I was not aware of.

I need some eye cream, and I would love to know of any brands or treatments you're down for. A general, great moisturizer would be awesome, as well. Some basic information:

1. I am bi-racial, which means that I am forever being told I don't 'need' creams, moisturizer, serums or the like because I am brown and that myth is perpetuated by members of my own family, who use nothing but Dove and look 10 well into their seventies. However, I absolutely do need them as I am dealing with a little bit of hyperpigmentation, a little dry skin in the outer corners of my eyes, a little uneven texture and tone, a little bit of The Wrinks when I squeeze my eyes together and smile really big. I also don't drink enough water, get enough sleep and sometimes I am around enough cigarette smoke to feel it the morning after, even though I don't smoke.
2. I have a maximum budget of 50 dollars for each item (eye cream/moisturizer), so 100 total. If we can't do it for less than that, I'm up for using mayonnaise. If you're a Kiehls girl, let me hear those names being dropped.
3. I'm more interested in prevention and maintenance than a cure. I just want to stay hydrated and healthy, rather than transport my dermis back to the dewy days of 1986, when I was four. Like I'm down for my age showing on my face, I just want to make sure that my face is happy about it.
4. I don't break out or deal with acne beyond the occasional, monster cheek or chin zit, and I've got that taken care of thanks to salicylic acid and a scorched-earth policy when it comes to that. I use Cetaphil, because it is just great, and I sleep on my face which I shouldn't but I do. I don't know if that makes a difference, I just feel like confessing.
5. I apologize if this comes across as being demanding, all "TELL ME YOUR SECRETS" -- I just, like I said, have no idea where to turn. All of my back issues of InStyle are pissing me off, and my friends, when we attempted to have a round-table about this, were equally dumbfounded. We are all in the sausage factory, blindfolded and running around. There are no adults.

Please, be our adult.

Too bad we have to become lovers, now

1. I crossed a goal off of my Food Goals, '08 list and made buttercream with a hand mixer the other day. It worked wonderfully, and this goes along with my old-man dream to prove that no one needs a Kitchenaid stand mixer, really, explaining why I don't own one. The real reason is because I am too poor to buy a pistachio beauty, but I like this reason too. Notes for my own damn self:
    - Use a standard whisk during the 'over simmering water' part, don't try and drag the cord.
    - Self, either you're dumb or a genius -- deciding not to use the third stick of butter because the stuff looked and tasted right already saves money and guilt.

2. One of my friends made a delicious lentil salad a few weeks ago, and I decided to copy it. Feel free to do the same.
    LENTILS DONE DELICIOUS
    1 can of Westbrae lentils (reputable, organic, canned only with water and sea salt), drained and rinsed    
    1/4 cup crumbled feta cheese
    Roasted red pepper, diced (around 1/4 cup)
    Thinly sliced red onion to taste
    Italian Parsley, minced
    1 garlic clove, minced or run over a microplane
    3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
    1/4 cup lemon juice
    Salt and Black Pepper to taste

    Combine all ingredients, toss gently, check for seasoning, chill overnight. Delicious.

3. Why does Adele's video for 'Chasing Pavements' make me happy in the morning and cry at night?

4. I'm trying to get back in the swing. You know? You know.

Dirty Girls

Because we are friends, I wanted to let you know that Fishs Eddy is selling Cynthia Rowley's Dirty Dishes for like under seven dollars a shot. I am telling you this because I would be so mad if somebody hadn't told me. Buy a cup and saucer. Make your Dad some tea the next time he visits. 

Sesame Street Videos III: I started to cry

My mom used to sing this song to us, a lot, when I was really young, and just hearing it now made me cry a little.

This is a trance trip out. It feels way trippier now than it did when I was four. Raves with bees and all that.

I'm super emotional now, because there IS only one me. And only one you.

This could be filmed now. I'm sure there is a hip family up in Vermont, making cheese, while their child wears the exact same outfit as the narrator of this video.

I have never cared for cats.

Soundtrack

Tired -- Adele

My Song -- Brandi Carlile

Merry Happy -- Kate Nash

Come Round Soon -- Sara Bareilles

Just be real about all of this

You know, I know it, Tommy knows it. This is the only thing keeping me going.

Also, what period of crazy time did we just enter, where Mary Steenburgen is old enough to have carried both Ferrell and Reily in her womb, movie magic or not?

How can I stop this?

This site is basically republishing, verbatim, entries. I am not mad, I just want to find out how to contact the owner/"author" so I can find out where they live, so I can cut the crotches out of all their pants. What up! So does anyone know how to read the characters featured on the site? Anyone know? Awesome. I'll just be over here, burning tires.

OH NO: Part one

I have never had the urge to send in my Most Embarrassing Moments to Seventeen, or maybe the grown-up versions to Cosmo or Glamour. For one, I think that embarrassment is healthy, it keeps the karmic scales calibrated and teaches you lessons about yourself and others, and half the time, the embarrassments aren't noticed or witnessed by a lot of people. You know? And I like to think that those, especially, are little karmic reminders of how weak, and easy-to-humble or humiliate you really are.

And usually they're small ones, falling on your face (literally or otherwise), being the butt of a joke, realizing you're somehow exposing a part of your body you shouldn't be. Farting loudly, sneezing so hard snot comes out and drapes itself across your cheek and upper lip, in the middle of a lecture or party conversation. Ones that aren't that big a deal, really, except for how you respond to them, usually with blushing and sheepish shame. But sometimes, they are huge reminders, HUGE, and looking back after the whole thing has come and gone, you see the warnings the cosmos were sending your way, and how you denied them because you and your thick head had an idea and it was going to come to fruition and as a result, what happened happens and you can't cry, because it is too big for crying. Crying is an act of indulgence in these situations, and there is no indulgence allowed right now. Brass tacks, friends, let us be real about this. What happened last night is too big and humiliating to be dumb over.

Like I think I shot someone last night, I really do, and now I'm hiding in your basement and you just threw a Capri Sun and a bag of 100 calorie wheat thins down at me, and your eyes are blank. It's cool, the cops are coming anyway, no matter where I go, we'd better just watch some 'Real Housewives of NYC' until they show up.

I would tell you, but I feel like nobody talks about these moments on their sites. You are all classy, dainty, well-bred cultured people, with nicely decorated homes and photography skills, cute clothing and no stories like this. I feel like it would be horrifying, this story between pictures of pancakes and Sesame Street videos. And who would want to? Every person I told the story to, explaining in full detail because no one else was there and the incident happened to me and indirectly affected someone else, and probably our friendship, has said a variation on the following condolences:

"I wish they made a card for this."
"Oh SHIT."
"NO."
"Awesome story. Awesome story. In ten years. When you no longer know him. Awesome story. For your kids. In ten years."
"I am telling _____. Can I tell her? Is that cool? Oh MY GOD."
"He probably didn't even notice."
"Just send out a MySpace Bulletin, apologizing. Just tell everybody at once, before word gets out."
"Oh honey."

So there we go. Last night something really embarrassing happened. A perfect storm brewed itself up, and there was no escaping it once I was sucked in, and I can't tell you about it, but I'm going to, eventually. This is just part one.

"We're basically the Kardashians!"

My sisters are tough girls. I sometimes think that I am unworthy of such guard dogs, and then I remember the time I found both a Stila gloss pen and unknowingly filched tube of empty (less than 1/4 gone, the last time I saw it) DermaDoctor lotion in my youngest sister's bag, and I think that is payment enough.