Blog for No One in Particular

On Sanity, Family, and Peanut Butter

2011-03-01T17:09:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-14T11:15:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-19T08:30:00.000-08:00

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!)

More to Love

2010-10-26T18:30:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

You've probably heard about this absolutely disgusting "fatties r gross LOL" tirade on Marie Claire's website, if not read it and known what it feels like to have FLAMES. FLAMES ON THE SIDES OF YOUR FACE.

There is so much to talk about -- so much hate to cut through I almost need a machete -- I think I'll have to start at the headline. Because yes, darling reader, even the headline manages to be an offensive, judgment-laden fat joke. "Should 'Fatties' Get a Room? (Even on TV)" Honestly, it's like they're TRYING to create controversy!

And let me point out that for one hot minute, I actually thought that this might be a ploy to get pageviews. A horrible, condescending, inhuman, simply revolting act played out by a desperate internet troll masquerading as a journalist to increase traffic to her blog. Surely, I thought in my one hot minute of clutching-at-optimistic-straws, no one can be this thoughtless; could be so lacking in self-awareness; so stupid as to write this in all earnestness.

But, of course, I was wrong. Silly rabbit.

Silly, chubby, revolting, nauseating, obese ~~rabbit~~ monster.

I know I'm wrong because I encounter women like Maura Kelly all day, every day.
It doesn't matter what size I am (as if dress size were a true indicator of health); snap judgments about my weight inevitably directly correlate to my worth as a human being. Simply looking at the actors who play 'Mike' and 'Molly' -- the bizarre, self-loathing sitcom that bore the bizarre, fat-shaming article -- are an assault to Kelly's very delicate sensibilities. Obese people wound her very soul, because they are less than human. They are visual, nutritional monsters; the atrocities committed by Mengele have nothing on "a very, very fat person simply [walking] across a room". And before you charge me with hyperbole, go back and find that quote in the article: she equates a heavy-set individual walking with a heroine junkie riding a high.

This, to me, is the crux of a "healthy" person's misguided approach to shaming a fattie into being a hottie: they see food as the enemy, as the sole cause of the repulsive "rolls and rolls of fat" being shoved in their line of vision. I will tell you right now: food is not the sole reason.

I'm about to get all SCIENCE-Y on you, so if you're still pondering how magnets work, you best move onto another blog -- but sometimes (a lot of times, actually) it's genetics. Some are genetically predisposed to be bigger individuals; it's a biological imperative based on thousands of years of evolution and genetic adaptation in response to environmental stresses, a.k.a. by science-y types: Allen's Rule. (See also [if you're into that sort of thing]: Bergmann's Rule.)
Regardless, my point stands: it's not always as simple as 'stop eating so much and exercise more'. If it were, there would be no fat people. And then who would the Maura Kellys and the MeMe Roths of the world hate on?

And for some, food is a drug. Just like most alcoholics don't drink simply because they like the taste of cheap vodka in the morning, afternoon, and night, those who bury the pain with food don't overeat because they can't say no to another bite. You can't tell a crack addict not to smoke and force them to stop through sheer force of will. You can't just tell an anorexic to have a cheeseburger. And you can't berate a fat person into losing weight.

So no, it's not something that can be easily changed, if only they put their minds to it. I can't think and hope and pray really, really hard that I'll change my DNA and suddenly have the ability to grow 5 inches and have the metabolism of a greyhound.
What can be easily changed, however, is the frustratingly horrible mindset that morons like Kelly cling to. You can not look at a person and know their health, so stop assuming that this is possible. You can, however, look at a person and not be utterly offended by their appearance. It's not an easy road, and I'm happy to give you some suggestions, like stop being pig-headed and an asshole, but you can also visit a therapist! YOU CAN DO IT!

I must admit, I feel a tinge of sadness and -- dare I say it? -- pity for Kelly. Not for the piling on of criticism she's received -- oh no, that she truly deserves -- but for the plaintive admission that she suffered (suffers?) from anorexia. Without a doubt, her history of disordered eating has forever coloured the way she views food and people who happen to have visible body fat. Her righteous attitude is certainly a hold-over from her less-healthy days; it just goes to show that pushing what you think is the proper antidote to a perceived problem is just fuel for the unhealthy fire. Plus, it makes you ~~look like~~ a jerk.

Ultimately, this article served its purpose. It got people to talk about the perils fat-phobia, albeit in a totally unintended way. Moreover, the article -- and the subsequent backlash -- serve to remind us that, just like you can't simply look at a person and judge their health, you can't shame people into being what you want them to be.

A sick body is a symptom of a sick mind. Let's get healthy, people, each of us in our own way.

--amanda

No Place Like Home

2010-10-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Off To See the Wizard

2010-04-09T19:34:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I know this blog has been long neglected. I'm afraid that it's going to be neglected a bit longer, since I am indulging my wanderlust again and fleeing the country.

original source
found via weheartit

I'm crossing off the #1 item on my Mighty Life List: Go to Australia.
In t-minus 9 days, there will be a check next to that sentence, and I can't be more excited.

Obviously the "stay as long as necessary" bit isn't applicable; I am, however, going to be in Oz for 2 glorious weeks. There's so much to do and see in Down Under, so I'm severely limiting the number of places the Boy and I are visiting. That way, I can cap my spending and really get the feel of a city AND I've given myself an excuse to return.

The Boy and I are only hitting up the major cities, Sydney and Melbourne. I can't tell you how excited I am to visit Melbourne. I've already made birthday dinner reservations -- that's amped I am to be exploring the city.

So far the itinerary includes: Bondi Beach, Queen Victoria Market, a football game at MCG, a looong drive down Great Ocean Road, and cooing over fairy penguins on Phillip Island. I am really looking forward to spending a couple of afternoons picnicking in Melbourne, just people-watching, and soaking up the sun on Bondi and Manly beaches.

Anything we're missing? My cousin (who will serve as tour guide) has also mentioned taking us on wine tastings in Yarra Valley, and I have no doubt she has a ton of fun stuff planned. We have a guidebook, but if you've been and know of something I absolutely MUST SEE, please let me know!

Au revoire!

--amanda

P.S. I have a 14 hour flight ahead of me, so if you have book recommendations, send them my way! Something light and fun, but not totally brainless would be lovely. Thanks!

C'mon Vogue

2010-03-02T11:31:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I was going to write a post about food, and scratching a goal off my Life List, because hello -- are you new here? I'm Amanda and I live to eat. I also write to eat and slang strollers so that I can afford to eat at delicious restaurants.

But.

Gorgeous Vanessa from Chicken Soup for the Dorky Soul (which is how she should introduce herself from now on) posted about something that irritated me to the point that I can no longer ignore my blog and lie on my sofa watching re-runs of 'The Office'.

Apparently blinding, psychotic rage is my muse.

I've written about fashion and public perceptions of beauty quite a bit, because I believe that the notion that fashion is frivolity and therefore below examination is really very dangerous. I would argue that the fashion and beauty industries control quite a bit of the average Western woman's life; to ignore that, or to dismiss it as fluff belies how incredibly menacing they can be.
How many stories have you heard of aspiring models being hospitalized due to eating disorders? How many skin bleaching products line the shelves of pharmacies around the world? Waving these questions off as unimportant is tantamount to waving off all the women who slave under the misapprehension that if only they were skinnier, whiter, younger -- if they simply fit the ideal -- they would be set for life.

At the centre of this maelstrom of self-hatred and misogyny is Vogue. Not just American Vogue, which, let's face it: is almost a parody of its former self, but the whole Vogue family.

Vogue Italia (which I used to hate marginally less than most Vogues) recently added a couple of subsections to their main website: Vogue Curvy and Vogue Black.

I have to admit: I kind of love both of these websites. They're well-laid out, the articles are really good, and most surprising of all: they feature what they advertise. The curvy ladies splashed about are actually curvy; no Lara "boobs = curves LOL" Stone here. 'Vogue Black', hilariously enough, opens with a giant shot of Michael Jackson, but also features Grace Jones.

Sure, I should be glad that a captain of industry such as Vogue would dare acknowledge such outliers as women with curves and black people, but I'm not -- at least, not really.
In fact, my initial reaction was: Fuck me, Vogue is obnoxious.

They are so backward in their thinking -- and so self-righteous in their ignorance that it's maddening. I thought it was just Wintour that acted like a pompous ostrich with her head in the sand, but it appears that the whole Vogue family is infected. And I LIKED Vogue Italia for a minute there, specifically when they published that fabulous Black Issue.
Vogue suffers from delusions of grandeur: they think that if they release an issue with a handful of pages featuring women who fall marginally outside of their norm they should be lauded as heroes. What's even more maddening is the way they treat such features: the copy is heavy, weighted down with style-jargon trying to explain how they dare let such freaks associate with their shining white name; the photos are airbrushed to the point of amusement; and the features only exist to highlight the "otherness" of the subject.

Vogue (and publications like it) takes gorgeous women like the ones featured on the new websites and makes them into a sideshow of freaks. They are not normal -- they're barely even human -- because they fall outside the "obscenely skeletal white teenage girl" norm that dominates Western fashion.

I refuse to believe that I'm simply bitter because I fall outside the norm. I continue to hope against hope that the fashion industry will start to look more like a rainbow rather than a gathering of emaciated Hitler Youth.

We need to stop segregating minorities from the rest of the fashion world and start not just including them, but welcoming them into fashion proper.
Fuck the fashion magazines that publish spreads with Crystal Renn and Chanel Iman and then demand praise as if they did something extraordinary. I want to open a magazine and see women that look like me: women with boobs and hips, with wild curls, and darker skin. That is a magazine I would praise with my hard-earned cash. I know that this magazine is out there, waiting to be willed into existence.

C'mon, Vogue.

--amanda

Happy Valentine's Day, Cupcake!

2010-02-14T11:23:00.001-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Red(dish) Velvet Heart Cakes with Cream Cheese Frosting

Happy Valentine's Day!

I love each and every one of you. Your comments, your emails, your tweets have touched me deeply. You're fantastic; you're fabulous; and most of all:

You're beautiful, cupcake.

Inside and out.

Love,
amanda

My Mighty Life List

2010-02-01T11:14:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

If you've spent any time on the interwebs at all, you've no doubt come across bloggers' life lists. Alternatively, you might remember a quirky, more-than-slightly-morbid film about two geriatrics on a road trip crossing items of a wish list.
I blame this trend on blogger extraordinaire Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl fame.

I'm a sucker for projects like these, especially since I've finally accepted the fact that I'm a Grownup and it's up to me to make my life as mighty wicked as I wish it to be.

I've been working on this list on-and-off for months now, and it's in no way a final draft. Part of constructing these lists is giving up a bit of control, shifting priorities, and learning to love whatever life throws at you.
The list is dominated by travel and food goals, which makes sense. My life comes down to two questions: where did you go and what did you eat? Other goals are long-term -- I won't know I've attained them until I'm old and grey. And a lot -- I mean a lot -- of these goals have a story behind them: wine and cheese parties, Bernadette Peters, the Showgirls deluxe DVD set. I can't wait to tell their stories and tell the story of how I made that dream come true.

The world is a treasure chest, my darlings. What gems do you seek before your time comes?

Amanda's Mighty Life List:

Go to Australia. Stay for as long as necessary.
Visit Olduvai Gorge and root around in the dirt
Visit Patagonia; see penguins up close and personal
Climb the Great Wall of China
Eat offal
Kiss the Boy under Juliet’s balcony in Verona, Italy
Explore every Smithsonian Museum in DC
Visit Dollywood; stalk/meet Dolly Parton
Swim with bioluminescent plankton in Isla de Vieques, Puerto Rico
Partake of entirely legal recreational drugs in Amsterdam
See a shadow play in Thailand
Eat stinky tofu in Taiwan
Go dog sledding in Alaska
Drive across the United States
Become entirely fluent in Spanish
Make wine and cheese parties a weekly tradition
Eliminate financial worries
Live a life with no regrets
Dance underneath the Golden Gate Bridge
Dinner at the French Laundry
See Bernadette Peters in concert
Rescue all future pets
Create the perfect lemon square recipe
Open The Nifty Bakeshop (aka: open my very own bakery)
Pick berries and apples and make pies with the harvested goods (related: get over fear of making pie crust)
Visit the catacombs of Europe
Celebrate El Dia de los Muertos in Oaxaca, Mexico
Visit Gobekli Tepe, Turkey (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1157784/Do-mysterious-stones-mark-site-Garden-Eden.html)
Sit in a café in Prague; ponder deep, existential, pretentious thoughts
Give the Showgirls Special Edition DVD set to a girlfriend as a baby shower present
Do a NYT crossword in pen

Write a story worthy of This American Life
Get Carl Kasell to do the recording on my voicemail
Read more
Have a greener lifestyle
Wear matching undergarments every day
Shop the Witches’ Market in La Paz, Bolivia
Live in a foreign country
Eat durian in Indonesia
Pull an all-nighter in Ibiza
Always have fresh flowers in my home
Learn to drive a stick shift
Can my own jam
Pick up the bridge toll for the car behind me
Go vegan for a week
Eat dulce de leche and steak (not together) in Argentina
Exercise regularly
Grow my own fruit trees
Ride a donkey in the Grand Canyon
Make my own salted caramel chocolate truffles
Bowl a 300 game
Win a National Geographic photography contest
Ride a bike through a vineyard
Make pistachio macarons that rival -- nay, surpass -- Miette’s
Give $100 to a talented street musician
Hug a baby bonobo
Visit the Valley of the Kings
Give thanks for all I have and all I have done every day

Passing Moment Gone

2010-01-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy Holidays

2009-12-21T18:26:00.001-08:00

May your holiday season be filled with happiness, light, and -- of course -- lots and lots of love!

--amanda

Shine On

2009-09-28T22:42:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

via: lemonlove

When I saw this image, I became so enraged I needed to look at videos of puppies in order to calm down.

Let me tell you why this pisses me right the fuck off:

First of all, it's total nonsense. Why wouldn't inner beauty shine through make-up? Is there something in my foundation that blocks my winning personality? Does my eye liner act as a barrier for my charm? Because I am pretty fucking charming.

No, if you were truly beautiful on the inside, there would be no impediment to that coming through. Clothing, hairstyle, the dreaded makeup -- these things can not stop you from being the incredible person you are.
Really, if anyone says differently, it's because they're the asshole -- not you. Anyone who takes one look at you and dismisses you based on your looks is a Judgey McDouchebag and you're luckier for not having more of them in your life. Fuck them. You never would have been able to please them, anyway.

Second of all, how passive-aggressive is this mantra? It decides that in order to convince other people that you are, in fact, nice and worth their time you must wear your face bare, but it dispenses these pearls of wisdom in the snottiest, most condescending way possible. Stop smearing the pancake makeup on, Bozo; you're a nice enough person on the inside.

Third of all, it labours under the misapprehension that most women wear makeup because they feel ugly. Or because they have something to prove. Or because they care about what other people -- read men -- think about their personal appearance.
Let me clear this up right now: I do not wear makeup for you. I do not wear makeup to look pretty for my boyfriend, nor do I wear it in order to please anyone else. I wear makeup to please myself. And let me assure you, person who thinks this idiotic phrase is the wisest thing since Ghandi, most women do the same.

I take pride in my makeup, mostly because putting on a good face requires skill. It's an art, painting on the face. Don't believe me? Hit up a good drag bar and try to tell me different. Hairy dudes that can cover up a 5 0'clock shadow that looks like a 3 day growth and still look more fabulous than me? Artists. This chick? Artist (and a modern-day makeup Cinderella, I might add).
Naturally, I love when people compliment my purple eyeliner or the shade of lipstick I'm rocking. It feels nice to be complimented; it does not mean I'm slathering eyeshadow on in hopes of pleasing some random nobody.

I feel like I must point how how totally patronising this sentiment is. This is a graphic done by a man, obviously in hopes of making women feel bad about themselves so they might conform to his standards of beauty.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of being told that I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing makeup. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm not wearing makeup. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm not a size 2. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my hips are large. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my hair is curly. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I've straightened my hair. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing a red shirt. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm wearing a blue shirt. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my eyes are large. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm short. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my skin is tan. I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because my skin is not tan enough.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I can not please you.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful because I'm a woman and you're a man and your opinion counts for more than mine.

I'm tired of being told I'm not beautiful.

I'm tired of being tired, and I'm tired of reading crap like this.

Inner beauty can shine through anything: through makeup, through outdated clothing that doesn't fit right, through an unflattering hairstyle. Through crooked teeth, through wide hips and narrow hips, through muscle, through fat, through bones. Through fair skin, through dark skin, through purple skin. Through scars, physical and invisible. Inner beauty can shine even through the neverending darkness of death.

Put on makeup. Wear a baggy sweater. Don't comb your hair. Show off your tattoos. Wear a bikini -- your body is ready for it.

You are beautiful no matter what you put on the outside.
Your smile outshines the sun. Your laughter is the sweetest music. You glow with an inner light, and only you can dampen it. Share your beauty with the world.

You're beautiful.

--amanda

Big Eat Challenge -- 2 for 1

2009-09-11T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I've always been a little intimidated by the Ferry Building; there are so many delicious, interesting-looking restaurants nestled under its glass and steel arches -- not to mention the bustling, legendary Farmer's Market on the sidewalk outside -- that I get overwhelmed and end up leaving for more familiar territory.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to bite the bullet and sink my teeth into some delicious food from the Ferry Building.

#40: cheeseburger from Taylor's Automatic Refresher:
I can't remember where I first heard of Taylor's Automatic Refresher, but after a cursory glance at their yelp page, decided I was, in fact, in the mood for a gourmet burger.

I'm really more of a patty melt girl, so I opted for the patty melt over the top 100 list making cheeseburger. The jury's still out on whether or not this was a wise decision. Then again, I'm just looking for any excuse to visit again.
In addition to the patty melt, I demanded an order of sweet potato fries and an espresso shake. I was stupid enough to be starving when I visited Taylor's, which is a lot like volunteering to have my fingernails pulled out. I'm such a slave to my hunger, it's ridiculous.

I sat at my table, inhaling the splendorous scent of their garlic fries. I began to worry that I picked the wrong side. Then I began to wonder if I could kill the couple who so disrespectfully ordered the garlic fries, but didn't eat them. I'm 99% sure I could have gotten off with minimal jail time.

As soon as my order came up, I grabbed a fistful of the gorgeous, bright orange sweet potato wedges and crammed them into my mouth. At that moment, I reached nirvana. Heavenly choirs sang hallelujah and the sun danced in the sky.

You guys, Taylor's sweet potato fries are THAT GOOD. They somehow lack the starchiness of regular fries, and are seasoned perfectly. Per. Fect. Ly. The slight heat of the chili powder, coupled with the light dusting of regular ol' salt and pepper cuts through the gentle sweetness, creating a symphony in my mouth. If I had ordered nothing else, I would have been so happy with Taylor's I would have run through the Ferry Building singing its praises.

The patty melt was more than a bit disappointing. To be fair, I was so hungry, I barely tasted the first couple of bites. They use a nice dark rye bread, which is a welcome change from the usual light rye. The burger itself is obviously of good quality, but it's sadly overshadowed by the liberally applied condiments. There is way too much mayo and mustard on the damn burger. Granted, I hate mustard, and truly believe the spice and tang of the rye is more than sufficient to cut the fatty goodness of the Swiss cheese and beef. Still -- they overpowered the yummy dead cow, which knocks it down a peg in my book. The meat should sing in a burger, not the sauces.

The shake was equally disappointing. It was made wayyy before the rest of the meal ( I know because I was sitting near the end of the bar and watched it being made) so it melted and became a runny mess, rendering it no more than melted ice cream. Tasty melted ice cream, but not a shake.

Overall, it was a decent meal. Sure, the burger fell short, and the shake was laughable, but those fries -- THOSE FRIES -- were delicious enough to forgive puppy kicking. My biggest issue with Taylor's is the overinflated prices. Maybe if everything was perfect spending $20 on a burger, fries, and shake would be worth the cash, but not if my meal was the best they could offer.

The sweet potato fries, though. They were miraculous.

#49 -- ginger snaps at Miette
Miette is somewhat legendary in the confection/baking world. Bakers and major sweet teeth make pilgrimages to the adorable bake shop in search of their notoriously delightful cupcakes. Or so I've heard. I don't think I've ever had one of their cupcakes. I'm a snob, you see.

Anyhoodle, I was a little surprised to see their ginger snaps as the list-maker over their more well-known cupcakes or macarons, but I jumped at the chance to try a new ginger cookie. I love ginger confections, and ginger snaps are some of my favourite cookies.

"Adorable" is the best way to describe Miette. Everything, right down to their shopping bags, is tooth-achingly darling. I didn't get any photos of their Ferry Building location, but it's a nice French girl respite from the stark architechture that predominates.

The ginger snaps were ... well, there's a reason their cakes are more famous. That's the kindest way I can put it.
The cookies, despite looking lovely, were disgustingly stale. They lacked anything resembling the "snap" necessary to make a good ginger snap. They had a strange bite; soft, yet tough and chewy. I took a bite and had to chew for a good 5 minutes. My jaw was aching so bad I couldn't get through an entire cookie.

I made the Boy try one, and I wish I had taken a picture of his expression. His entire review: "Ew. God, ew. No." A couple days later, he informed me that they made impressive Frisbees.

But! I am no fool. I was wary of the ginger snaps, and had heard incredible things about Miette's macarons. I snapped up a classic raspberry for the Boy and a chocolate-lavender for me.

Let me tell you, the macarons should be on the Big Eat list, not the ginger snaps. They were the most perfect macarons I've ever eaten. The meringue had a slight crunch, yielding to a soft, melt-in-your-mouth fudge/jam centre.

The raspberry tasted true to the berry, without being overly jammy or sweet. The chocolate was a study in unfolding flavours: the fudge melted across the palate, giving way to a gentle lavender flavour, which, miraculously, didn't taste a bit like soap.

I could have eaten a million of them.

While the actual entries on the Big Eat Challenge fell short of my expectations, they pushed me in the direction of some really great food. If the rest of the challenge continues in this way, I'm going to be very fat. Very happy, but also very, very fat.

--amanda

The Big Eat Challenge

2009-09-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

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

A True Story

2009-09-03T11:38:00.000-07:00

This is the story of a little yellow sweater.

Handmade, obviously done by an amateur, it seems relatively ordinary. There are, no doubt, hundreds of little yellow sweaters being knit every day by hundreds of kind aunts, mothers, and grandmothers for hundreds of little girls. Hundreds of little yellow sweaters, each bearing hundreds of mistakes and dropped stitches that make them stand apart in the sea of sun-coloured yarn.

This little yellow sweater, with its mis-matched white bands on the arms, rough hem, and missing buttons, was never completed. To finish that hem, to add the missing buttons would be a disservice to the story of the little yellow sweater -- but we must start that story at the beginning.

The story of the little yellow sweater begins almost exactly 20 years ago in a City by the Sea, in an apartment at the edge of the City.
A kind aunt decided to make the little yellow sweater for a favourite niece, presumably as a Christmas present. I can only guess as to her feelings and thoughts, but perhaps she was pleased with herself for completing the little yellow sweater so quickly. It was only October; Christmas was months away. All that was left was to fix up the hem and add some buttons. Maybe, if there was time, she could still re-knit the right sleeve. Maybe; I can only guess.

Any theoretical plans she may have had for the little yellow sweater, any dreams she may have had about her niece wearing it were crushed, buried under a pile of rubble as the earth began to shake and sidewalks erupted, as bridges collapsed and buildings folded like houses made of cards.

The apartment at the edge of the City was located in perhaps the worst neighbourhood for earthquakes. Buildings were built on top of nothing more than sand and water; when the ground began to roll, homes -- including the apartment in which the little yellow sweater was made -- crumbled to the ground.

Everything was lost. Everything was destroyed.

Some were lucky: they lost only material possessions.
Some were not so lucky: they lost lives, loved ones.

The kind aunt was lucky; she was not permanently hurt, and neither were her two little boys. Everything they owned was buried under piles of rubble; most of their possessions were burnt to ashes. But they were lucky: they survived.

The kind aunt visited what was left of the apartment at the edge of the City often, hoping something might be yet be salvaged. Sometimes friends came with her, so she wouldn't have to face the heartbreak of staring at the ruins of her life alone.

One day, while standing at the police barricades separating her from what used to be the apartment at the edge of the City, the kind aunt experienced a minor miracle.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with a friend (who was really more like a sister), staring out at the wreckage, the kind aunt spotted a bright spot at the corner of what used to be her block.

Gasping, she flagged down a firefighter. Breathlessly, she pointed out the bright spot:
"That's mine!" she cried. "That little yellow sweater! I made it for her daughter", she explained, motioning to her friend (who was really more like a sister).
The firefighter, understanding what it meant to have something personal pulled from the ruins, dug through the mess and pulled out the little yellow sweater.
The kind aunt held it in her hands for a moment. "I made this for Amanda", she said, even though the gift didn't require any explanation. She handed it over to her friend (who was really more like a sister). "I didn't get to finish it."

The little yellow sweater was the only thing to be saved from the remnants of the apartment at the edge of the City.

Working for the Weekend

2009-07-21T12:32:00.001-07:00

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?)

Cupcake Dreams and Bugaboo Mornings

2009-07-08T20:21:00.000-07:00

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!

E Hawaii Aloha e

2009-06-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

Hi all!

So I'm finally going to make good on my promise: my giveaway starts now!

I've packed up little presents to send to you, my delightful readership, as tokens of my deep appreciation. There's something about the relative anonymity of the internet that continues to amaze and comfort me. I've shared more with perfect strangers than I have my own family, and, incredibly enough, a lot of you have showed me more support and love than I could ever have hoped for.
As I said before, my readership is tiny, but thoughtful; it's the perfect illustration of quality over quantity. I started this blog over a year ago thinking no one would ever be driven to actually read this, hence the title. However, I feel as though I've made friends here, like-minded women (and the occasional man) who hear where I'm coming from and care enough to present their own unique point of view. It warms my cold, dead heart to know that there are people out there who read what I write and are so moved to chime in with a thoughtful remark or motion of support. My heart is so full, and it you have all filled it.

Now it's my turn to give back. I was planning on divulging the contents of my care packages, but I think keeping it a secret is much more fun, no? (If you do want something specific, like flavoured spam, let me know!)
A few guidelines, however: only regulars apply, here. If you're a lurker, I'm sorry, but I don't have a package for you. Don't let that dissuade you from delurking -- there may be a tiny token in the post for you, too! If you've commented with some regularity, then this is all for you. Send your mailing addresses to goodbyeroosevelt@gmail.com preferably by Wednesday, 3 June 2009*.

Alright, my lovelies! Email me and watch your mailbox!

--amanda

____________________
*This date, although soon, is not entirely arbitrary. I'm moving back to the mainland on Friday, and will therefore be car-less on Wednesday. I need your addresses before then in order to mail them from Honolulu. If you miss the deadline, fear not -- I'll send them from California instead.

No Worries

2009-05-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

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]

Bad Blogger

2009-05-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Suffer for Fashion, or Whatever

2009-05-01T00:33:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I really wanted to write up a couple of happy and upbeat entries (especially given that I vanished for a week, leaving a screechy post raging at society to "leave Susan Boyle alone!") before I slipped into my ranting pants again, but alas, I can not hide my true, rage-filled colours.
Apparently, disposable clothing chain Forever 21 is launching their new "plus-size" line, Faith 21, tomorrow. Normally, I would be all over this like Whitney Houston on a crack pipe, but everything I've been reading about this launch is making my scalp crawl.

CNN recently published an article about Faith 21 and the fashion industry's "stretch" to produce plus-size clothing. First of all, I'm a little weirded out by the fact that CNN is reporting on the goings-on of Forever 21 -- was it an exceptionally slow news day? Totally off topic, but it's a little jarring. Second of all, can we address the fact that F21 felt the need to produce a sister line? What's wrong with simply adding larger sizes to the existing stock? Having a separate line featuring separate clothing that will no doubt be shoved into a corner of the store isn't empowering for bigger girls, it's shaming them. And we all know that what full-figured ladies need is to feel more shame about their size, especially when they're teenagers.

Which brings me to what I think may be the most hateful quote I've read in a while:

"However, when you look at the human cost, what we're doing is we're on the Titanic and rather than forcing our children into the lifeboat, we're telling them to join the band. Worrying about fashion rather than worrying about the food is a horrible message that we're sending these kids," -- MeMe Roth, president of the organization National Action Against Obesity.

First of all -- and I don't say this often, since it's wholly unhelpful and dismissive -- STFU, MeMe. You know not what you speak, although it is painfully obvious you speak out of your ass. Catering to women of a larger size is not "worrying about fashion" it is clothing the masses -- literally, given that the average woman is a "plus-size" 14.

Hatefilled, deeply disturbed people like MeMe* and willfully ignorant high-end designers like Miuccia Prada continue to ignore the fact that the average American woman is considered "plus-size" in hopes of shaming them into a more slender shape. Refusing to clothe them is not a solution, just as holding up a size 00 as the ideal will not inspire them to "put the food away" and hit the gym. It will, however, inspire more disordered eating -- both of the anorexic/bulimic variety and of the overeating+depression variety. Either way, people aren't going to be healthier, nor are they going to have anything to wear.

Plus, newsflash, people: if shame could actually make people thin, there would be no fat people to hate on. Get a fucking hobby that doesn't involve passing vitriolic judgment on others. I hear knitting is very "in".

Moreover, while actually catering to the majority of women is commendable, it does not make you a saint. It makes you a sensible business owner. I know I will catch a lot of flack for this, but just as I despise the pervasive fat hatred (for lack of a better term), I don't understand the suffering stance so many are taking when they actually provide clothing over a size L/size 10. Just as the Roths and Pradas and Lagerfelds of the world need to cry themselves a river, build a bridge and get the fuck over it already, I feel that those who deign to cut a larger swatch of fabric are just as obnoxious. Again, you're drumming up further business, not sacrificing yourself for the good of the fashion industry. Now stand up straight: that martyr pose only further reveals your judgement.

I guess this can be interpreted as though I am damning the fashion industry for both ignoring AND supplying, but I'm really not. There is a difference between saying "We recognise that women come in all shapes and sizes and we're going to do our best to provide them with fashionable clothing options" and "Aren't we sooooo brave and wonderful for daring to venture into the double digits?! PRAISE US." I just don't buy into this "A for Effort" nonsense that's being awarded to designers and companies that actually dress the average woman. Especially when, as in the case of Faith 21, the sizes really aren't that inclusive: Faith 21 carries XL and XXL. This, coupled with parent F21's tendency to size smaller makes the whole exercise feel, like, well, an exercise and not so much a valid foray into offering plus-sized options.

I think there can be a happy, healthy middle ground where women and fashion can meet and discuss the new trends for the summer season. However, that middle ground rests on society's ability to recognise that women run the sizing gamut -- from a slender size 00 to a voluptuous size 30 -- and all deserve to have options. Beautiful, fashionable, flattering options that cater to the beautiful, fashionable, incredible woman wearing the clothes. We're just not there yet.

--amanda

__________________
*Based on this article -- which is HIGHLY inflammatory, and will cause you to headdesk repeatedly -- I think it's safe to say Roth has some serious psychological issues with regards to food. I genuinely hope she gets some help.

Beauty Misadventures: Smooth Away Layers of Skin!

2009-04-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Voices Soft as Thunder

2009-04-21T00:10:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

A week ago Susan Boyle was not a household name. Now the 47 year-old Glaswegian is all anyone can talk about.* Since I'm an only child, and therefore the centre of the universe, I feel the need to weigh in.

What troubles me about Boyle's newfound fame is this ridiculous obsession with her appearance and its apparent relationship to her ability to carry a tune. Shows like "Britain's Got Talent" and "American Idol" rub me the wrong way because, as much as it is a search for a genuinely gifted individual, it's also freak show: attention seekers and clueless individuals alike are humiliated on national (and now international) television, creating a sort of weeks-long Roman holiday for the tuned-in masses. Naturally, this always works out well.
People are lauding Boyle as this season's Paul Potts: a working class schlub who most unexpectedly turned out to be a hit. Articles on Potts and Boyle often have an oddly reverential tone, as though they triumphed over great adversity -- but, really, they didn't. They overcame grinding mediocrity to become national sweethearts. That's the rub -- they're almost aggressive in their total normality.

Contrary to what people are saying, Boyle is not ugly. Sure, her brows could use a quick pluck and she could benefit from a slightly more flattering frock, but she's not exactly the monstrosity the media is making her out to be. Granted, she won't have a She's All That transformation should she make a threading appointment and slip into a new dress, but she's not climbing down from the bell towers in her current state, either.
So why are her looks as important as her singing voice? When token lady-judge Amanda Holden bestows Boyle with the backhanded compliment "I am so thrilled because I know everybody was against you", you can be sure the audience wasn't rolling their eyes because Boyle lives with a cat named Pebbles**. Why was the state of her hair enough to set an entire nation against this sweet, unassuming Scottish spinster? What shift occurred in our thinking that makes us equate external beauty with talent? Katy Perry is conventionally attractive, yet she doesn't exactly have the voice of an angel. Why, then, are we so ready to dismiss Boyle based on her looks? What prompts Ant or Deck to point at her gleefully and squeal "didn't expect that did you? Did you?! NO!" as she sings?

When I first watched Boyle's audition, I was actually a bit scared that she would be the British version of William Hung. You remember William Hung, right? God, I felt terrible for that man. The optimist in me would like to think that he was in on the joke, yet the realist in me knows this not to be true. Watching so many people laughing at him made me feel like the entire world was back in high school, bullying the poor "weird kid". I hated what happened to Hung, and I really wish that on no one.

There is no doubt in my mind that if Boyle was not in possession of a good singing voice, she would have been laughed off that stage. Hell, she was laughed at the second she walked on.
And here's where I express my most unpopular opinion: I don't think she's that good of a singer. Don't get me wrong, she has a beautiful voice, but she's not exactly blowing my mindgrapes with her rendition of "I Dreamed A Dream". She hits the notes perfectly (though she struggles a bit with the low notes), but there's no oomph. The whole performance, frankly, is a bit reminiscent of karaoke; I don't get a sense of strong emotion driving the song and "I Dreamed A Dream" is all about emotion, you know? It should sound like her heart is breaking with every syllable. I'm sure the standing ovation from the people who, just seconds before, were laughing at her affected her performance, but ... ok, I'm really cynical, but I think that if she had just a so-so voice she would have had audience support, and I think this is because the audience had lowered their expectations of her due to, you guessed it, her appearance.

As it is, Boyle really does have an immense talent and deserves to be praised. But what really floors me is how delighted people are to be proven wrong. If the media is to be believed, Potts and Boyle save us from our shallowness. Just as that teenaged snot in the audience rolled her eyes at Boyle, I can't help but roll my eyes at society: if we are simply giddy over our false judgements, why don't we actually take the necessary steps to remove such misconceptions? Why don't we stop the painful, mortifying auditions for American Idol and its ill-gotten ilk?
Why don't we do as Boyle recommends and learn the big lesson to stop judging a book by its cover. Since that book has no interest in being made over, let's focus on her lovely voice for once.***

--amanda

[ETA:]

Apparently, whether or not Susan Boyle needs a makeover is the talk of the nation -- I just listened to an interview on NPR's Talk of the Nation discussing this very topic. The contributor, Robin Givhan, a fashion editor for the Washington Post (natch), was insisting that Boyle be "polished": pluck her brows, get her hair did, etc. What galls me about this nonsense was Givhan's insistence that this is simply the way the music industry works. Boyle is talented, and will no doubt get a recording contract and then go on tour; she is expected to pretty herself up for her performances and be "the whole package". End of story. Now get in that salon chair, woman, and shut up until you're asked to sing again.

I call bullshit on this. No one is going to buy a ticket to a Susan Boyle concert expecting something on the level of Celine Dion. She isn't going to put a show on the for the masses, she's going to open her mouth and sing -- which is what she should be doing. I still don't see how the thickness of her eyebrows relates to the quality of her singing voice.

Givhan kept pointing out that singers -- really, performers -- are expected to look a certain way, and Susan Boyle does not fit that mold. While Gihvan points out that Boyle is something of a Cinderella story (I don't believe she is, but no matter) for the normal person (a fairytale in which someone who dares to be average reaches above average heights), she seeks to penalise Boyle for that very normality. Boyle has a gift, and we have to pretty up that package in order for her to be anything of interest.
Disgusting, and I can't believe my beloved NPR allowed such ignorant drivel to be spouted on the airwaves. Instead of insisting that this is the way the music industry works and condescendingly patting Boyle on the head, saying oh, it's lovely that you're you, but now you have to change, we should be engaging with why we believe that Boyle needs to slip into some Spanx and have her hair frosted in order to be a worthwhile musician. Again: bullshit. She's a worthwhile musician because she can sing, not because her highlights look nice under the stage lights.

All I'm trying to say is: the question should not be "does Susan Boyle need a makeover?" but rather "why do we insist that she does?"

_________________________
*The weirdest part about Boyle-mania? My father, who watches only 24 and CNN, knows who she is. Listening to him talk about her is like like listening to Paris Hilton wax intellectual about Keynesian economics.
**For whatever reason, I think 'Pebbles' is the most hilarious cat name ever.
***I love her for refusing a makeover. LOVE her. Her sensibility is refreshing and hopefully contagious.

If I Were ...

2009-04-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I first learned about Isabella Rossellini's new project, Green Porno, through the following quote:

"I was reluctant to do mammals, because they look so similar to us. But what's interesting about the whale is the female puts her vagina on the surface of the water, out of the reach of the male. Then she can see the males fight and she can select which one she likes, and then she turns over and lets him get to her. I thought, I can do that!"

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I wanted to know more.

Green Porno is a webseries hosted by the Sundance Channel. Starring Isabella Rossellini, it chronicles the sex lives of various animals. The first season was all about backyard bugs; the second, which premiered on 1 April, is about marine animals. The videos are super short -- only a couple of minutes long -- but chock-full of information and utterly hilarious.

Rossellini plays the animals featured; she begins each episode saying "If I were a ____", filling in the blank with the creature of the day. Various body parts attach to her, making her a male bee, an earthworm, a right whale. She then earnestly describes and acts out the mating rituals of whatever animal she happens to be, copulating with paper cut-outs or papier mache partners.

The webseries is unlike anything I've ever watched. It's so bizarre, I don't know what to make of it, but I know I like it. The script is fantastically funny -- I now pepper my speech with non sequitur quotes from the show, saying things like "I would light up my ass at night" and "so I don't get screwed by a bear!" -- but always smart. The science of reproduction is first and foremost; the humour and dry wit simply season the science.

Rossellini has said in many interviews that her goal was to make people laugh, but also to educate them. You giggle at the snail's confession "sadomasochism excites me!", while you learn that they shoot daggers at their mates.

My only complaint is that the videos are too short. While, admittedly, there's only so much you can say about starfish sex, the episodes are addictive and engaging. I want more! I only hope that season 2 hasn't finished yet. I want to know more about the sex lives of fish, plankton, whatever brings us more Green Porno.

--amanda

What's in a Name?

2009-04-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Epic Fail

2009-04-13T22:37:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I arrived rather late to the "AmazonFail" party. I spent most of Easter Sunday either completely unconscious or feverishly delirious. When I became lucid enough to actually read up on the scandal, there were still few facts and a whole lot of theories floating about on the Twitterverse.

For those still unaware, news broke this weekend that online bookstore behemoth Amazon.com was systematically pulling the sales rank numbers from gay and lesbian books, labelling them "adult", thus excluding them from searches and best seller lists. The ramifications of such an action are massive. First of all, labelling such material as "adult" is patently ridiculous, especially since vibrators are available with sales ranks intact. How is a butt plug less "adult" than Ellen Degeneres's biography? Second, due to the massive stripping of sales ranks, when you enter "homosexuality" into Amazon's search engine, the first title that pops up is "A Parent's Guide to Preventing Homosexuality"*. I'm not linking to that mess, but as of 7:53 pm Hawaii Time on Monday, 13 April, it was still the #1 spot.

I can't begin to express my rage and bitter sadness. I can do what Amazon claimed they were doing and think of the children. The tortured, scared queer youth who desperately want help coming out to their friends and family that click onto Amazon to find some literature and instead of finding something empowering, like the The Advocate College Guide for LGBT Students, they're bombarded with homophobic tripe. That won't just send people back into the closet, it sets them up for a lifetime of depression and intense self-loathing.

This goes beyond Amazon trying to make a statement about homosexuality -- some books, such as Full Frontal Feminism and Chelsea Handler's memoirs don't quite fit the anti-gay purge -- which fits the original excuse offered by Amazon: that this is nothing more than a "glitch". But this fails to address the fact that author Craig Seymour's books were stripped of their sales ranks in FEBRUARY. This is not a weekend "oopsies", like Amazon would have us believe. There's something systematic about this, and it feels slightly sinister.

Amazon controls a LOT of data. They sell more than just books; they're becoming more and more of a lifestyle company: selling you stuff from conception to coffin, and everything in between. I don't believe that this is part of a grand scheme to bring an end to homosexuality (*snort*), but rather, a powerful, persistent push to further the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) and devastating homophobia that pervades societies world wide. And that is incredibly damaging.

Normally, I would give Amazon the benefit of the doubt. Like I said, they control a ton and a half of data: cataloging errors, as they later labelled the issue, are expected, and are expected to wreak utter havoc with the system. But again: this is not the work of a single, slightly inept man in France who mislabelled something during a long weekend. This has been going on for months. And I have no patience for Amazon's shady side-stepping and complete inability to apologize. Their PR department totally mucked this up, making it seem like the company really was up to something nasty, and the hesitation on Amazon's part was more than enough to send the rumour mills a-turning.
Really, I would have given them the benefit of the doubt if it weren't for the fact that Seymour's books were stripped months ago. That, coupled with the non-responses issued by various representatives and total lack of a formal apology, was enough for me to boycott Amazon.

This is a little painful on my end, since I've been a loyal Amazon customer for years. I've purchased many a textbook from them, and I buy at least one Kindlebook every two weeks. Hell, I've even bought lip balm and music through Amazon. I know it's folly to think that my tiny contribution to their bottom line will hurt them, but I can't give my money to a company I can't trust. I'm heading to my local library and independent used bookstores.

Now. If anyone knows how to get e-books for the Kindle without going through Amazon: I'll send you cupcakes and/or brownies. Seriously. The Kindle changed the way I read books, and I almost flipped when I realised that I'd have to tote around a 600 page hardback.

--amanda

____________________________
*Let me answer this oh so pressing issue of how parents can prevent homosexuality: don't breed, you homophobic hate-mongers. You're welcome. You may now send me the money you would have spent on the book. Spoiler alert: I'll donate that money to a local LGBT advocacy group!

Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair

2009-04-10T14:21:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with an intense bout of homesickess.

I don't know what brought it on. I suppose I had a dream about San Francisco, and the emotions that came to me in sleep carried over into wakefulness.

My friends and I jokingly resent the fact that we were lucky enough to grow up in the Bay Area. To us, it is the perfect place to live: temperate weather, incredibly diverse population, a city nestled between the sea and mountains surrounded by former hippie enclaves. There's no way we can move away and top that. (And we have tried. Trust.)

I also blame the Bay Area for making me a food snob. I see San Francisco as the gastronomic capital of America; the incredible diversity of Bay inhabitants leads to an incredible diversity of restaurants: some serve up deliciously authentic ethnic foods, some are on the cutting edge of culinary trends, some are hole-in-the-wall mom & pop operations serving up French toast so divine you will see God.

Of all the things I miss about the Bay Area -- Chinatown in all its morbidly hilarious glory; gold and red cable cars rumbling up the hills; former hippies mingling with "ironic" hipsters in notorious neighbourhoods; the chill, slightly salty air; stinky, barking, bellowing sea lions; The Palace of Fine Arts's terra cotta dome; passing over the salt flats as the plane dips into SFO; the Berkeley Bulb and the hidden, graffitied castle, perfect for wine and cheese parties -- I miss the food. Cheeseboard, Fentons, Citizen Cake, Kan Zaman, Sol Food -- oh, God, I miss Sol Food! I dream about their tostones. I wish I were kidding -- the entire Ferry Building: I could travel around the Bay Area and never eat the same food twice.

I have rituals whenever I go home; I have to eat at specific restaurants, eat certain foods I can't find in Honolulu. I have to have burritos, I have to visit Sol Food at least once, I have to have Cheeseboard pizza. It doesn't matter who I go with, I just have to eat these things -- these foods -- that I can't help but associate with home.
There is one restaurant, one ritual, that I absolutely have to do with my mother. As soon as I get home -- like, as soon as we get in the car to leave the airport -- we make plans to go to Out the Door. We must share a MANGO PUDDING as soon as possible. That's how we talk about it, in all caps: MANGO PUDDING. "Are you free Friday to get some MANGO PUDDING?" Naturally, they serve other things -- they have the most delectable summer rolls I have ever eaten. Seriously, I hate peanut sauce, but I just about lick the bowl when I order their summer rolls -- but for us, it's all about the MANGO PUDDING.

[all photos via: The Boy]

I haven't lived in the Bay Area for about 3 years now and sometime this summer, I'll be moving back an unemployed college graduate. I don't know what the future holds for me, but I know there will be much eating. Who knows -- I may find myself yearning for Honolulu.

So, no one in particular, is there a place your heart yearns for? Home? A favourite vacation spot? A fantasy home or vacation spot? Share with me and we'll pine together.

--amanda

There Must Be Something in Books

2009-04-08T17:19:00.001-07:00

This is, perhaps, old news, but I was recently introduced to the heartrending photographs taken at the Detroit Public Schools Book Depository, aka the Roosevelt Warehouse. I spent the last 15 minutes clicking through the set with my heart in my throat.
Granted, Jim is an incredible photographer, but it's the sheer destruction of the book depository that causes me to tear up. I still can't get over it.

My first reaction was "what the hell happened?" Apparently, it was everyone's first reaction. Jim wrote up an incredibly detailed history of the depository and the series of events that eventually led to the ruins that we see today. Short answer (in case you don't want to read the whole story, which you really should): a major fire ravaged the warehouse in 1987, seemingly destroying everything, causing officials to abandon the wreckage; it later became apparent that not all supplies had been destroyed, leaving perfectly good textbooks and much-needed school supplies abandoned. The building was eventually purchased by a local magnate, but the building and its contents were left to the elements, vandals, drug addicts, and Detroit's increasing homeless population. While the warehouse was once ridiculously easy to break into, security measures were tightened (albeit superficially) only after a frozen corpse was recovered at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

In another post detailing his photographing the book depository, Jim muses that he is "struck by the way people respond in the comments with a sense of 'sadness'". He goes on to ask his readers:

why is it "sad" for a building to be left to decay if there is no one willing to use it? Can decay be something more than sentimental? Can it ever be beautiful? Can it just be respected for what it is, and not further corrupted by our emotions? And what is it that draws us to ruination? Why do some of us find it so compelling?

My sadness, if you can call it that, stems not from the fact that this old building is crumbling. It comes more from the history of it, the stories of the people whose very lives revolved around the building and its contents. Detroit is the quintessential blue-collar city, and it is impossible for me to remove the workers from the warehouse when I click through the photographs. I can't help but imagine the warehouse floors free of decay and bustling with workers. Distribution records, charred along the edges, but still legible, litter the floors. Someone spent their day filling out forms; someone spent their day moving boxes. 1986 feels so far gone, yet it's only recently passed. I wonder what happened to the people who woke up one morning and started their day like it was any other, only to watch their livelihood go up in flame -- literally. Did they simply move to another depository, or were they forced into the unemployment line, trying to find another marketable skill?

Yet what really slays me are the abandoned supplies. Granted, the fire destroyed quite a bit of the warehouse's contents -- what wasn't burnt was severely water damaged, but so much was simply written off as unsalvageable. Mountains of unwrapped textbooks still on pallets are now covered in mold; it's pretty easy to see that these books were perfectly fine at the time of the fire -- why weren't they redistributed? Some workbooks appear to have sustained minimal damage, 20+ years later.
Detroit is one of nation's poorest school districts. Administrators are sensationalist newspapers' darlings, never failing to provide scandal purchased with money from the district budget. My heart aches not for the ruined building, but for the children whose futures went up in smoke and/or were simply abandoned. Student achievement scores are sickeningly low and it is impossible to pretend that this is a recent occurrence -- 47% of adults in the Motor City are functionally illiterate. How many of these men and women would have benefited from the piles upon piles of unused material found in the book depository?
I must admit, this is a subject that is close to my heart. I once taught in an outreach program for at-risk youth. The kids were incredibly smart, but because of poor living situations and because they weren't receiving the necessary attention in school, they were falling through the cracks. 14 year-olds couldn't tell time on an analog clock, could barely write a simple sentence. And while I was far from working in the nation's most financially-needy school district, I didn't always have enough books or worksheets for the kids. Paints and markers were purchased with our own money -- and we didn't make that much. The sight of all those unused school supplies makes me bitterly angry and sad.

The photos stand as a testament to the failures of the system, of, as Jim puts it, "abandoned hope". I look at the pictures and see so much waste: wasted chalk, wasted paper, wasted opportunities.

But of course, there's always some silver lining. Some of my favourite photos from the set are of a tree called the "ghetto palm" growing from a soil made of burned textbooks. While the destruction is heartbreaking, there is something poetic and beautiful about some life bursting from the ruin.

--amanda

"Gym" comes from the Latin for "nest of neuroses"

2009-04-02T16:01:00.000-07:00

Dear 24 Hour Fitness Employees and 'Roidy Bodybuilders:

This concerns both of you so I'm saving time by writing a single letter. So come, sit, and listen to some damn sense.

Dropping weights is against the rules of the gym. I know this because it is posted all over the place, along with all the other rules. I know the employees know this because no doubt they were the ones who had to paste the little plaques on the walls, and it's probably knowledge imparted to them during their training sessions. And I know that the bodybuilders know this because they have eyes. I'm certain they can read, otherwise how did they manage to get a gym membership?

So what gives with the dropping the weights?

I have four words for the bodybuilders: cut that shit out. Now.
Ok, that was five, but my point still stands. It's really dangerous; if you let an enormous amount of weight drop from a great height, you could shatter the weights. Some poor granny or teenager with an eating disorder could be seriously injured because you had to prove that you were the manliest man that ever manlied. Not to mention that you could totally wreck the floors, forcing the gym to shut down while they repair all the costly damage. I like my gym. I hate the one downtown; the whole building is too narrow and the cardio room is constantly flooding. If my gym is shut down because you just had to lift all 200+ lbs in the chest press machine, I will hire a donkey ride, track you down, and end it all.
I know you're oh so proud of your bulging muscles and the fact that your bicep is larger than both my thighs put together, but honestly. There is no reason for you to grunt like a warthog in heat while squatting a tour bus and then dropping the weight on the floor while roaring at the top of your lungs. Stop it. You are not Simba, and this is not Pride Rock. Common courtesty will go a lot farther than your overdeveloped trapezius.

And gym employees, don't think you're off the hook. I haven't even begun to show my rage.
I'm so sorry if doing your job is such an inconvenience, but please. I know you can hear them dropping weights. I know you can feel them dropping weights. The entire gym rattles like an elephant just jumped up and down. The first time it happened, I almost fell off the elliptical, partly out of shock and partly due to the shockwave reverberating through the floorboards.
We all know you know this is against the rules. So please enforce them. I get it -- you're afraid to incite the roid rage and damn, those men are SCARY. They could easily break you like a toothpick using their pinky finger. But for the sake of the rest of the gym patrons, do your job and tell off the obnoxious ones. It's what you're paid for.

If we follow the rules (which are there for safety, not to inconvenience you) going to the gym could be -- dare I say it? Enjoyable.

Thanks,
amanda

P.S. To the men with the overdeveloped forearms: stop. I like well-defined arms on a man as well as the next girl, but you're overdoing it. It's starting to look like your only hobby is masturbation, which is not a chick magnet, no matter what you read on the internet. xoxo

A Quick Programming Note

2009-03-31T15:47:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Posting has been nonexistent, and I feel terrible about it. I know I promised that I would be updating with more frequency, but last week was my Spring Break and oddly enough, was one of the worst Spring Break's I've ever had. I'm not about to go into it (this blog has enough navel-gazing as it is); it was a bad week, and it's in the past.

I would like this to be more than just a quick update, but apparently, I have a midterm tomorrow? My professor and his army of T.A.s decided that they didn't need to actually update the syllabus, nor let the students know via mass email, so I'm swamped with test prep right now. I promise I'll be back by week's end.

Before I sign off, I have one question: anyone else watching "Any Dream Will Do"? It's fantastic: dozens of (slightly) fey Brits with panty-dropping accents competing to follow in the illustrious footsteps of Donny Osmond? Solid gold shit, maestro. The show is hosted by Graham Norton, who can be deliciously catty, and the soundtrack is fantastic. They (seemingly) unironically play Eminem and Queen, and whenever Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber appears, they play the Phantom's theme. It's totally worth the cable bill.

--amanda

Oh, Canada.

2009-03-21T19:58:00.000-07:00

[Warning: the following post contains some graphic videos. Click play at your own risk.]

Dear Canada,

First of all, know I love you. I have loved you since I was 8 years old and my parents drove from Seattle to Vancouver and we stayed in a hotel that shared our familial name and the concierge gave us free stuff. I really fell hard when I was 16 and visiting family in Toronto. In fact, I love you so much I considered going to school at U of T, but in a characteristic-Amanda move, decided I didn't want to go through the paperwork of getting a student visa and honestly, do you know how cold it gets up there? So cold, students have to walk through underground tunnels to get to class in the winter. That's darn cold, Canada.
I love you so much that if we were at a party together, I'd dig down deep and pull out the charm instead of standing off to the side, silently judging. That's how much I love you, Canada: I'd put away the bitchface just for you.

I also feel like I should apologise for the one time I went to Quebec City with my family and my mom stole that sign for Les Fetes de la Nouvelle France. I tried to keep her from defacing public property, but she wouldn't listen. I agree that the banner it was a part of did look a little funky after she ripped it apart, so thanks for turning a blind eye and not throwing us in jail. Neither of us look good in horizontal stripes.

Now that we've got the lovin' out of the way (that's what she said), I must confess, I have a bone to pick with you. Generally, whenever anyone says anything bad about you, Canada, it makes me want to take my earrings out and sharpen my nails. But I've come across something that I simply can not defend. Your Public Service Announcements.

This is the first one I saw and I kid you not when it gave me nightmares:

This one, I must admit, made me laugh a tiny bit:

Because when I fall off a ladder into a glass case, the first thing I do is stand up and lecture my horrified co-worker about job safety. No, no ambulance. We need to discuss the semantics of the word "accident". Script writing/acting FAIL.

There are more where these came from:

The two I've posted as stand-alones also appear in the video above. They're all equally awful.

Now I know that PSAs serve to scare sense into people; I saw one when I was about 4 years old about how babies can drown in two inches of water that scared me so badly I made my mom watch me in the bath even though I had been showering by myself for a while.
What bothers me, Canada, is that you show these incredibly graphic, violent 30 second crimes against sanity during primetime. Apparently, the first time the chef-PSA aired was in the afternoon during a hockey game. I don't normally sing soprano in the "OMG WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDRENS" chorus, but really Canada -- what about the children? How could your censors not realise the effect that such grotesque imagery could have on young viewers? Forget young viewers -- people in general! I'm 22 years old and a huge fan of gallows humour, yet I will never get the sound of that young woman's screams out of my head.

I'm sure there are ways to get the same point across with significantly less mind-scarring terror. Back to the drawing board, Canada. You're resourceful and creative. After all, you refer to your currency as "crazy".

Less of traumatizing PSAs, more of these:

Kind of unrelated (I'm sure it's a spoof), but this one is pretty great. It looks like something that would happen to me:

I'm still burning a candle for you, Canada.
--amanda

Things I Haven't Bought, But Still Love

2009-03-19T12:39:00.000-07:00

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.

You Like Me!

2009-03-17T13:41:00.000-07:00

Oh my stars and garters, I've received my first-ever internet award! I wish I could say that I was mildly amused by this, but the truth is I'm unbelievably tickled. I made the Boy come to the computer and gush with me; I'm currently trying to figure out if this can be put on a resume.

A million thanks to Diana of the incredible blog, our.city.lights., for nominating me!

Rules:

Put the logo on your post.
Nominate 5-10 blogs you like.
Be sure to link to your nominees in your post.
Let them know they have received the award by commenting on their blog.
Share the love and link to this post and the person who gave you the award.

My nominees:

our.city.lights: I don't know the protocol for these awards, but I ultimately decided that regardless, Diane deserves to be showered with blog-love. She's incredibly inspiring; her covet-able outfits, legendary camera collection, and thoughtful posts are a delight to read.
Daddy Likey: Thinking back, Daddy Likey is probably the reason I started blogging in the first place. Winona's fresh, funny take on all things fashion -- and quite a few things not at all fashion-related -- is a gem amongst the overwhelming "meh" of most style blogs.
The Clothes Horse: The Clothes Horse may seem like a run-of-the-mill "what I wore today" fashion blog, but that's far too dismissive. The Clothes Horse has inspired me to really think about what I'm wearing; my predilection for dresses is probably directly influenced by scrolling through the Clothes Horse's enchanting photos.
Saturday Jane's Last Semester: Saturday Jane is a new blogger, but she's easily one of my favourite reads. Her posts are at once witty, poignant, and always intelligent. She's going to be a star.
Lemon Love: This is another recent find, and it's quickly climbing to the top of my favourites list. I am insanely jealous of her design skills, her artistic ability, and her eyebrows. In general, I am insanely jealous.
Lesley Denford: One of the top five most beautiful blogs on the internet. Lesley is an incredibly talented artist, and her gorgeous collages also serve as eye-candy for the blog. Inspiration personified.
babyassface: Funniest blog name ever. The first time I read babyassface, I laughed so hard I knocked my computer off my lap, causing my mother to come in from another room and yell at me. Jenny has humour in spades and skin care advice to match.

Thanks again and share the love!

--amanda

Polling the World

2009-03-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-09T02:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Aloha HARD.

2009-03-08T18:31:00.000-07:00

I saw this last night and laughed so hard, I started wheezing.

It's funny, but I find myself having similar conversations whenever I'm on the mainland:
Stranger: Oh, you live in Hawai'i? How awesome is it?
Me: If by "awesome" you mean paying $1.50 for a single lemon, it's pretty freaking awesome.
Stranger: But you must go to the beach and surf all the time, right?
Me: Not at all. I'm not on vacation; I have things to do, exorbitant bills to pay.
--conversation ends awkwardly--

Don't get me wrong, Hawai'i's lovely, but living here is not the same thing as vacationing here. The story about the shanty town, complete with meth lab and teenage pregnancy? So true and so prevalent, it hurts.

All that aside, I'm madly in love with The Rock*, even if he is a Samoan man playing a Hawaiian man doing a Tahitian-style dance.

_________________________
*I know he's going by his "real name", but he'll always be The Rock to me.

insert high-pitched noise here

2009-03-03T01:28:00.000-08:00

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]

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

2009-03-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--amanda

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

Kindling

2009-02-12T15:48:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I was not an early fan of the Amazon Kindle. Honestly, I was pretty darn anti-Kindle up until Christmas Day, when I was lucky enough to receive one from my long-suffering mother.
You see, I live in constant fear that I will be killed by my personal library. I have hundreds of books in dozens of places; I've moved a lot recently, so I not only have over-stuffed bookshelves at my parents' home, groaning and threatening to buckle under the weight, I have bookshelves at my apartment doing the same. Plus, I have boxes of books scattered throughout both locations, the majority of which I can not lift because books are freaking heavy.

Naturally, these books do not just accumulate on shelves. I am rarely without a personal reading book (as opposed to the ones I'm forced to read for school, which I carry around on the regular as well). Like I said, books are heavy, so my left shoulder is permanently higher than the right. No really. It is. Hairdressers and doctors comment on it all the time. I blame carrying around giant, overstuffed purses loaded with books.

So you can see why the Kindle was such a great gift choice for me: it can hold hundreds, thousands of books in a single device. No more bookshelves spewing trade paperbacks! No more hunchbacked daughter whining that her neck hurts!

But I was firmly against the Kindle and its e-book reader brethren.
Books are so much more than a simple vehicle for the written word, as any true bibliophile knows. I love books, I really do. The heft of a well-made hardback sagging in the palm of my hand; the flexibility of a trade paperback, the thin pages bouncing and flapping in the breeze; the smell of paper, glue and imagination -- these are what make a book so wonderful. I love the feel of a page slipping through my fingers as I turn ahead. The deep black ink's stark contrast to the crisp white page. The Kindle can't begin to hope to replicate small moments like these.
And I don't think it means to. In a world that has become increasingly dependent on electronics, the Kindle seeks to do what all extraneous gadgets do: simplify and accelerate.

I keep mentioning that I was not a fan of the Kindle and had no interest in purchasing one. My feet were firmly planted on the side of Team Book. Now ... ? Now, I'm a little bit in love with my Kindle. What changed? I held a Kindle in my hands, downloaded a couple of books, fidgeted with the features, and had my world rocked.

This is not to say that the Kindle is perfect. Far from it, really, and I don't think that it's newest incarnation, Kindle 2, is going to be the e-book reader to convert all of Team Book. But I can not deny its charms.

First of all, it's thin, thinner than most paperbacks, and it's really lightweight. This frees up a ton of space in my bag, which makes my doctors (and mother) rejoice. I'm one of those people who, if I'm nearing the end of a book, will carry an extra so I'm never without reading material. The Kindle simplifies my life by putting both books in a single device.
This is another huge selling point: the capacity, which is easily increased with a memory card. I could hold thousands of books in my little Kindle, something I would never be able to do with real books.

Another feature that's especially appealing for me is the annotations feature. I know some think it's absolutely blasphemous to write in books (my father is one), but I like putting little notes or highlights in the margins. It's something I started with school books and have transferred over to pleasure reading. The Kindle allows you to electronically highlight, bookmark, and annotate your reading; it stores the notes in a separate file, so they're easily accessible -- no flipping through pages in search of that one really awesome quote.
This, with the capacity, could change college textbooks forever. Seriously, publishers: Kindles for university students. It's the wave of the future.

Like I said, the Kindle isn't perfect. It's flaws are many. It can be downright irritating at times.
The button layout on the Kindle 1.0 is maddening. There are very few places one can hold the bare Kindle (sans some sort of hard cover) without pressing some button and thus directing you away from the current screen. 2/3 of the right side is comprised of the "next page" button, while the left side is split between the "next page" and "previous page" buttons. Ok, it's really nice to be able to move forward or back with either hand, but the immense buttons make it difficult to hold the Kindle.
This has been rectified with the Kindle 2.0, which has smaller buttons that are angled inward, supposedly making it harder to accidentally navigate away from the current screen (so says Amazon).

Oh, and before you ask: no, I'm not going to trade up. I have a Kindle and I'm kind of in love with it, remember? We're totally going steady -- why would I cheat on it? But more on that later.

Another feature that the new Kindle supposedly improved upon is the sharper display. This is one of my big beefs with the Kindle: pictures suck on its screen. Covers look really funky, all washed out and blurry; I wanted to read Carrie Fisher's "Wishful Drinking", but after skimming the sample and realising that the book was photo-heavy, and that the Kindle couldn't hack it, I ended up buying the real book. Seriously, the Kindle was like Tom Hanks's character in The Terminal, all awkward and pathetic.

And that right there folks, is the crux of my love affair with the Kindle: it can do some really snazzy things that I simply can't do with regular books (instantly look up words in a dictionary or Wikipedia, for example), but it pales in comparison with good old-fashioned books. I have to admit that being able to carry a 400+ page tome in a skinny handheld device is pretty nifty though, and I do read faster on a Kindle than a traditional book.
Yet the truth remains: I'm not going to stop buying real books, and I'm definitely not going to stop frequenting libraries, or as I call them "magical oases of love and awesome". Sure, e-books, on the whole, are cheaper than regular books (some are free! But then, some are just as pricey), but I can't hand my Kindle to someone and say "here, you HAVE to read this book!" There's no sharing with the Kindle.
They simply lack the tactile greatness of traditional books, and that is something they will never ever be able to replicate.

What I would like to see from future Kindles: back-lit screens, like a computer or cell phone. Those idiotic flashlight-lamp hybrids are ridiculous on books, they're equally (if not more so) as ridiculous for Kindles. I would also love to see a Kindle library. Sure, you can download samples (which are often useless, since publishing info and table of contents tend to take up the majority of a sample), but what I'm talking about is a buy-in service, kind of like a Netflix for e-books. For a set price per month, you can download as many books as you like. At the end of the month, you have the option of either paying for them, or just letting them be deleted from the Kindle memory, easy as pie.

And as for the uproar over the new and improved Kindle 2.0? As a Kindle 1.0 owner, I'm not bothered. Sure, I received mine a mere 2 months before the updated version came out, but I'm not about to write angry letters to Bezos demanding a discount on a Kindle 2 so I can trade in my Kindle 1.0. Technology moves forward, and in doing so, older products become obsolete. If Bezos does Kindle early-adopters a solid a la Apple and the iPhone, that'd be great! I'd love a credit to the Kindle Store as a thank you for drumming up the support necessary for the creation of Kindle 2.0*. If not, oh well. Anything else is just sour grapes.

So do I recommend the Kindle? Yes and no. The Kindle 1.0 has some real flaws and while the Kindle 2.0 seems to have improved on them, the fact remains that the Kindle is no replacement for traditional books. So long as you're cool with that, and you're looking to streamline your life, and you have the cash? Go for it. It's a nifty piece of technology with more pros than cons in my book.**

--amanda

--------------------------------------
*Not that I'm actually in that camp, as this post obviously points out. But it is something that's been kicked around on Amazon forums, and I think it would be a great idea, and not just because I want a credit. Take care of your customers, people!
**Pun absolutely intended.

Beauty Misadventures: MyChelle, MyBelle

2009-01-25T16:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Sounds about right

2009-01-18T14:59:00.001-08:00

Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it) from Joe Nicolosi on Vimeo.

Amanda (not me) who has never seen Star Wars, attempts to summarise the movies.

Habanera

2009-01-10T17:20:00.000-08:00

All my favourite Muppets in one genius video.

Make a Man Out of You

2009-01-07T13:44:00.001-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I love gentlemen. True, old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool chivalrous gentlemen who dress well, hold doors open, refer to women as "ladies" and not as "bitches" -- true men.

You see, the majority of young men I know are ... well, gay, but that's beside the point. The straight ones tend to be more concerned with how they impress their male peers than their female peers. And unfortunately, with the befuddling popularity of gangsta rap, masculinity has become synonymous with acting like a hoodlum.** Young men puff themselves up, in hopes of appearing agressive and therefore hyper-masculine; god forbid they show respect to women, or have a genuine moment -- they might be labelled feminine! No, they have to be "hard", put their "bros before hoes"blah blah bullshit. God forbid they give up their seat on the bus for an elderly woman, lest they be labelled a "pussy".***
Of course, there's the whole boys-in-eyeliner, emo movement to consider, but even that is troublesome and far from the old-fashioned gentleman I hold so close to my heart.

There's something about a well-groomed, sharply dressed man who speaks with all the charm of Sinatra and has the manners of Leopold that makes me go weak in the knees. You know those books Porno for Women and Porn for New Moms? Yeah, that's what The Art of Manliness is for me.

I refuse to believe that the gentleman is a dying breed, romanticized figureheads of a bygone era. Luckily, the geniuses at The Art of Manliness agree with me, and better yet, are working to transform the schlubby young American male into dashing gentlemen.
I found the website while cruising the 2008 Weblog polls (TAoM is up for a Best Culture Blog) and was drawn to the name, wondering if it was tongue-in-cheek. I fully expected blog posts
laden with sarcasm and praise for how bad-ass WFC is -- like this website*, but with more violence.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that The Art of Manliness is entirely genuine, but not without humour or self-awareness. Their articles are fun to read, educational, and just make my heart swell with romance and hope for a new league of 21st century gentlemen.

Their two best posts, in my opinion, are "The Mechanics of a Man Hug" and "Teaching My Son to Be a Man". The former exhibits just how genuinely funny the site is, while the latter is more sentimental, but deeply genuine and poignant.

I'm particularly smitten with their style tips; like Barney Stinson, I am firmly pro-suit. I've been known to demand that the Boy "suit up!" and as we're approaching graduation from university, with adulthood looming larger than ever on the horizon, the Boy's aggressively casual uniform of a t-shirt and jeans is slowly morphing into dress shirts and blazers, much to my delight.

Their relationship articles are also particularly poignant, reasserting the importance of romance and chivalry, especially in a (post-)feminist age. Some of my favourite articles include "How to Save a Marriage", a guide to spicing up a long-term relationship with romance, and "The Virtuous Life", a series based on Ben Franklin's quest to "man up".

Of course, no site is perfect, and my one large criticism of the site is that it is rather hetero-normative. Which, I suppose, is reflective of American society at large, but c'mon. We all know that gay men can be manly men too, and not just in the "butch vs. femme" way, either . Granted, I haven't scoured the website from top to bottom, but really, there's a disturbing lack of discussion of homosexual lifeways.****

I adore this website, and highly recommend it. Pass it along to the men in your life! I did.

--amanda

---------------------------------------------
*The first time I saw this website, I laughed so hard I fell off my bed. True story.
**I'm aware that I sound like a granny, all "kids these days!" But bear with me here, folks.
***I'm also aware that I'm speaking in what appear to be cliches, but trust me, these are deeply rooted in personal experience. I wish they weren't, but god knows they are.
****In the sense that the relationships advice covers only male-female romantic relationships, never male-male.

Mele Kalikimaka

2008-12-25T21:25:00.000-08:00

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.

And now for something completely different ...

2008-12-15T14:20:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I love covers and mashups, especially when the resulting song is wildly different from the original. It's so easy to copy what you hear, like singing along to the radio; it takes so much more to make it your own. Which is why I absolutely love Lily Allen's take on "Womanizer"*. I really didn't like the original, and Lily's spin feels so much more organic, sans synth beats and auto-tuning (at least to a lesser degree than Britney's version).
The website I've linked to has a ton of covers available for listening. I know I'll be spending a couple of hours there!

Also: I know this isn't much of an update. I'm smack in the middle of my final exams, so I won't be posting ... well, probably at all. Alack, alas, much rending of garments, I'm sure. But! My holiday break is coming soon, and with it an inordinate amount of free time, so there'll be a flood of long-winded posts to make up for these short updates that are probably better regulated to a Tumblr than an actual blog.**

Regardless, enjoy and lovely listening!

--amanda

--------------------------------
*I can't embed the file directly, so a link will have to suffice. [via: 24 Free Dinners]
**True story: I created a Tumblr for myself a little while ago and managed to post exactly twice before I became so intimidated I never looked back.

Confession: I've never seen any Star Wars movies.

2008-12-08T16:02:00.000-08:00

"Star Wars": an a capella tribute to John Williams
[via: Capucha]

This video is hilarious, all the same.
For some bizarre reason, it looks like something the Boy would do if he had the energy and editing software.*

--amanda

---------------------
*I'm not sure why I think this; it's not like he's an insane Star Wars or John Williams fan.

A Pound of Flesh

2008-12-06T14:24:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

The problem of "nude" is a hot-button topic for a number of bloggers recently (Wendy Brandes and Jezebel both dedicated some space to the issue), raising the question: when did "beige" become a synonym for "nude"?

Obviously, this designation did not spring up within the last week. I have distinct memories of Lucky touting "nude" sandals for summer 2006 -- proof that nothing in fashion (especially fashion magazines) is truly original. But why nude? Are Lucky and other magazines so dense that they don't realise that, no, people are not all the same colour underneath their clothes? I can understand that "beige" and "oatmeal", while apt descriptions, have decidedly un-sexy connotations, what's wrong with "neutral" or "taupe"?

Equally troubling are the racist overtones of lauding something as "nude" and promising that shoes in such a hue would elongate the leg line when obviously, this only works for, well, white people. So what -- people who aren't white don't want longer legs? Don't have that option available to them?

Perhaps I'm overthinking this.
While I'm not one to be overly involved with the PC movement, the fact remains that fashion is guilty for perpetuating the myth that white skin = beautiful skin -- a point I've written about before. So yes, political correctness can reach dizzying heights of ridiculousness, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's invalid. From where I'm sitting, the fashion industry could use a healthy dose of it -- and perhaps some diversity training.

--amanda

P.S. Another issue that comes up in these discussions of "nude for whom" is the Crayola "flesh" coloured crayon. Apparently, the colour was discontinued in the 1960s in response to the Civil Rights movement, and was subsequently rebranded as "peach". Colour me crazy, but I was born a solid two decades after the "flesh" crayon disappeared, but I still remember using it as a wee one in the early '90s. Maybe I had a really, really old box? Or am I making false memories?

Big Rock Candy Mountain

2008-12-02T18:22:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

As someone who once wrote an extensive -- and dead serious (sounding*) -- essay on the ethnographic merits of Borat, this article about Candyland as a metaphor for the American Dream is fascinating. I wish I had thought of it.

In related news, I freaking loved Candyland. Never has a game board mesmerized me so. I always wanted to be Princess Lolly, and Lord Licorice freaked me out. His character design always felt too similar to Disney villans of the time.

What about you? Any fond memories of Candyland, or any other classic children's games?

--amanda

----------------------------------
*It was definitely one of those "how far can I push this?" assignments. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to really test my bullshitting skills on a final paper -- good thing it worked out in my favour!

Keep on Dancin' to the Rock & Roll

2008-12-02T01:40:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I finally finished my epic research paper, meaning I am that much closer to never needing to write an academic paper ever. again.

To celebrate, I've been cozying up to this fantastic post on Jezebel with a giant glass of red. The commenters have great taste in music, and I've been downloading like a mad woman, inspired by the videos they've posted.

Celebrate with me! Share some amazing music.

Here are my selections:

Squeeze -- "Tempted" (the greatest song EVER. It won't embed, sadly.)
Jamiroquai -- "Virtual Insanity" (much better than "Canned Heat", IMO. Another disabled embed-video.)

(I HAD TO.)

(I can't explain why I love this song with passion that burns like the clap. I just do.)
(Also: a great video or THE GREATEST VIDEO?)

What gets your booty groovin'?

--amanda

International Dance Party

2008-11-29T23:02:00.000-08:00

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

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

2008-11-28T23:35:00.001-08:00

I miss it so much...

[via 24 Free Dinners]

Paint a Vulgar Picture

2008-11-26T16:51:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

This article about a woman who sold an original painting by Adolf Hitler yesterday reminds me of a story a classmate once told me. Her family was Austrian (she was a first-gen American) and her grandfather was a young man when the Nazis invaded. He eventually acquired a copy of Mein Kampf, and placed it in a prominent place on his bookshelf. Whenever a snoopy guest mentioned it, he would respond "Oh yes. It's signed by the author."*

--amanda

------------------------------------
*I have no idea if this is true. It's a nice conversation-stopper, though!

It still hurts, American Girl. Still hurts.

2008-11-24T21:33:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Last month I blogged about my distress over American Girl's decision to retire beloved Samantha Parkington. Apparently, I wasn't the only outraged doll owner: I received an email today linking to a story about equally bereft bloggers taking to the internet to express their grief.

It's an interesting read (the PB&J metaphor pretty much encapsulates how I feel about this move) and it's really good to know that while the doll might be pushing daisies, the books are still available. The books, at least for me, were the foundation -- the whole point, really -- of the American Girl franchise. The lovely dolls were simply icing on the cake: pretty figures to aid in acting out the events of the book, tools to nurture the imagination.

I'll miss Samantha, and will continue to believe that she was one of the best characters in the American Girl pantheon. She was one of the most fully realised, and most true to life: she could be a total spoiled brat, but she was really kind at heart, with wide open eyes and an open mind.
While young ladies today might not have a Samantha Parkington to cuddle and play dress-up with, her world is still available to them in her books.

--amanda

T-Day minus 4 Days

2008-11-24T15:12:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Thanksgiving is bearing down upon us and I couldn't be more excited. Which is weird for me, since I normally hate this particular holiday. I've come to realise that I'm super-juiced about Thanksgiving this year because it's all mine -- no cooking for people I don't like, no cooking foods I won't eat. I'm calling the shots this year, and damn it feels good.

I'm also really looking forward to the cooking itself. I love to cook, but I've been so busy recently I haven't had much time to really experiment with new dishes. I'm looking at Thursday not just as another food-laden holiday, but as a chance to get back in my element and whip up some tasty eats. I have a ton of work bearing down on me right now, and I'm trying desperately to finish the majority of it before the holiday, but all I can think of is brined poultry and mulled wine. Obviously, this train of thought does not translate well when writing about Fatimeh and Ali Shariati.

The Boy and I finally put together a finished menu for our Thanksgiving dinner, and we're going grocery shopping tonight. Normally, I hate grocery shopping, especially here in Hawaii. It's pretty depressing, really -- everything has to be shipped from either Asia or the mainland, so what we get is usually half-rotted/beaten to hell and expensive. Milk is $8 a gallon! Lemons are $1.50 EACH. It's ridiculous.
But! Whole Foods has arrived! And it is glorious. Yes, it's expensive, but it's quality organic food -- something Honolulu is severely lacking. Something about wandering the aisles of a Whole Foods is soothing to me, knowing that there is no ingredient I won't be able to find. Having such a store is invaluable, and it seriously eases the tedium of grocery shopping.

Anyhow, here's the final menu for our Thanksgiving dinner:

Starter:

Spinach salad with cranberries and goat cheese
Mulled wine

Entree and Sides:

Chicken, roasted and brined
Bourbon-glazed sweet potatoes
Rosemary and sage stuffing
Spiced cranberry relish

Desserts:

Pumpkin gooey butter cakes
Maple apple crisp with vanilla ice cream

Good Lord I'm excited. How about you? Any fabulous Thanksgiving plans? Or perhaps you would just like to talk food. Let's chat!

--amanda

Beauty Misadventures: Scents for the Streetwalker in Your Life!

2008-11-21T20:21:00.000-08:00

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.

La Petite Amelie

2008-11-14T17:16:00.000-08:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I, like just about everyone else on the internet, am utterly entranced by Capucine, the wee French girl people are calling "Amelie Jr." Adorable to the bone, and ridiculously charming, I want to move to France to babysit. (Ignore the fact that I don't speak French -- Capucine can teach me!)

My favourite video involves her telling an wonderful story about a hippo who dies and goes to heaven against his will and a crocodile and a lion who becomes king, among other things:

Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.

I would kill to possess 1/10 the amount of imagination and joy she has!

--amanda

El Perro sin Pelo

2008-11-12T18:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-07T15:47:00.000-08:00

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

No. Way.

2008-11-07T00:54:00.000-08:00

Completely drawn on Facebook's Graffiti application. Photo-realistic, no?

I'll admit: I really didn't believe that this could be done in Facebook with a mouse. If you're like me, you need to click on replay to see the proof that it was, indeed, hand-drawn.

One question: how does one learn to do this? Is there a class I can take? Because seriously, sign me up.

--amanda

[via: 24 Free Dinners]

Ho'omaika'i 'Ana

2008-11-05T14:53:00.000-08:00

Some more Obama lovin' to spread around:

Stephen Colbert reminds us of the historical importance of a Hawaiian President. (Close on the pronunciation of Queen Lili'uokalani and ukulele, Colbert, but no cigar.)

And a wicked awesome mix tape dedicated to President-elect Obama.

My President

2008-11-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

[via: The Daily Dish]

I didn't want to sleep last night, for fear that I would wake up to a harsher reality than than the euphoric one I closed my eyes on. I was terrified that I would wake to the news that it was all a dream, a wonderful, painful dream and that we, the American people, resigned ourselves to a fate far worse than "more of the same".

I have to tell you, waking up to hear President-elect Obama's voice on the radio and the headlines of "Hawai'i's Own Makes History" is somehow even more incredible than the announcements of last night.

I mention this worry, this deep-seated cynicism, comes from my first election. I waxed in-eloquent last night about my father's first election; mine was the Bush-Kerry Presidential Election of 2004. I went to bed that November night, only to wake to the news that Kerry could have won the election, and instead, conceded without disputing the Ohio votes. The raw anger and disappointment I felt that morning raged throughout the day, making me slightly regret voting for such a man. That election was ours to win -- and we should have taken it.

Four years after swallowing that bitter pill, I found hope in Barack Obama. It moves me so deeply to know that I was not the only one.

Congratulations again, President-elect Obama. For the first time in eight years, I can say with pride "I am an American, and Barack Obama is my President."

"This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can."

Congratulations, President Obama. Congratulations, America.

2008-11-04T20:43:00.000-08:00

I'm not the least bit ashamed: I cried like a fucking baby when Charles Gibson announced Barack Obama has been elected the 44th President of the United States of America.

For this first time in history, the American dream that anybody can be elected president has come true. My sexagenarian father never believed that a black man could be elected President. The excitement and pure emotion in his voice when he called me tonight nearly brought me to tears again. We spoke after the DNC, and I remember him making the inevitable comparisons between Obama and Kennedy. To hear my father, the man whose first vote was cast for Kennedy in 1960, talk about how, not in over 40 years, had he been inspired by a Presidential nominee was incredible. My father cast his vote 48 years ago in Kennedy's historic election, and a few days ago, he cast his vote in yet another historic election.

As I am blogging this, President-elect Obama just walked out with his beautiful family, ready to give his acceptance speech, and I can't keep from crying again. Never has a politician inspired me so, and never before have I felt such hope and love for my country before, not even after 9/11/2001. Change is coming, and it is a much-needed change. Barack Obama is just the man to bring about that change, and I believe in him. He has inspired millions of Americans to believe that yes, my voice is important, and the multitudes have reciprocated, announcing that we believe in America, and we believe that Barack Obama is the man to lead us.

Yes We Can.

Yes We Did.

Yes We Will.

--amanda

[images via 24 Free Dinners]

"I am French! Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?"

2008-11-02T01:38:00.000-07:00

Today's lesson is brought to you by the letter "v". "V" for "vet", as in: vet your vice presidential candidates, and vet your phone calls.

No doubt that most have already seen/heard about this, but Sarah Palin being "pranked" by a Quebecois comedy duo pretending to be French President Nicolas Sarkozy is pretty, well, ridiculous. It's insanely cringe-inducing, especially given that Palin sounds like a crazed Sarkozy fan girl. The interview quickly devolves into obnoxious-territory, becoming increasingly awkward.

A transcript, courtesy of the Daily KOS, complete with French translation.

Honestly, I had hard time believing that Sarah Palin could be so damn gullible. Faux-Sarkozy's "French" accent devolves into Quebecois after about 10 seconds; he calls Johnny Hallyday a "close American advisor"; discloses that his wife is "so hot in bed"; and refers to "Nailin Palin" as a biopic -- all signs that someone's fucking with your head.
But what really gets my goat is how unbelievably ignorant Palin comes across. She falls all over herself when presented with the opportunity to talk with "President Sarkozy"; her greeting is far from professional, and she can barely handle the conversation. Just like in the debates, she has a hard time moving past simple talking points -- she actually injects them into her small talk!
Additionally, her "foreign policy" pitfalls are disgustingly apparent here. She doesn't catch the fact that the Candian PM is Stephen Harper, not, as Faux-Sarkozy mentions, Stef Carse. This woman is running for higher office, and not only does she not know what Nicolas Sarkozy sounds like, she doesn't even know who the Candian Prime Minister is! Moreover, she should know that Sarkozy recently entertained Obama as a visiting dignitary, and therefore would be unlikely to call her up out of the blue to commiserate about her faltering campaign and chit-chat about hunting baby seals. Let me reiterate: she's running for higher office, and she's this willfully ignorant.

Schadenfreude, the Masked Avengers haz it.

--amanda

Feliz Dia de Los Muertos!

2008-11-01T16:18:00.000-07:00

*click to view full image*

taken at the Museum of Popular (Folk) Arts in Mexico City (2006)

El Dia de los Muertos is one of my favourite holidays. I've written a bit about it before, but I'd like to reinforce the fact that this, like Halloween, is not a day of fear or morbidity. It's a celebration of life as much as it is a celebration of death.

People visit the graves of their deceased family members not just to mourn their death, but to celebrate their lives. It's a way of remembering that while they might be gone, they made an indelible impact while still alive.

El Dia de los Muertos reminds us that, so far as we know, we only have one life -- make it a good one. Surround yourself with good friends, good food, and good drink; make laughter the soundtrack of your days; see the world through rainbow lenses. Life is too short to be bland.

--amanda

Hope for our Future

2008-10-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I don't know about you, but I have the worst case of election-fatigue. 6 days feels far too long; I feel like we know all there is to know, and I can't stand to hear any more.

But then I saw this video and .... and ....

I'm all verklempt.

--amanda

T-Day minus One Month

2008-10-27T17:41:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I am sitting on my couch watching Paula Deen make fudge with Max Brenner, and I can't bring myself to think about anything other than cooking. Specifically, cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

I love cooking, baking especially. I bake to reduce stress, which means that there's almost always cupcakes or brownies in my fridge. As much as I love my Boy, he can't cook. Like, at all. I once caught him trying to boil sausages in a frying pan. Natch, I do pretty much all the cooking for the both of us.

We're both stuck in Hawaii for Thanksgiving this year, which isn't a big deal so far as I'm concerned. I really don't like Thanksgiving -- I know, there are people out there ready to shoot me for such an admission. Honestly, I hate most traditional Thanksgiving foods: turkey repulses me, cranberry jelly with the can ring-imprints terrify me, and I HATE pumpkin pie. That leaves a handful of side dishes for me to munch on, so I don't really get that food-coma that most of my family self-induces. And don't get me started on the Pilgrim-Indian nonsense.
I've slowly started to come to terms with Thanksgiving. I've realised that this is a holiday that most people really, truly enjoy and look forward to; in order for me to enjoy it as well, I had better take the reins, culinarily speaking.

That said, I'm getting more and more excited about this Thanksgiving. While I know the Boy is disappointed that there won't be any turkey or pumpkin pie, he trusts that I can pull together a great meal for the two of us.
I've created a preliminary menu; it looks like a ton of food, and well, it is. Especially considering that I'm cooking for just two. But! I believe that if we're going to have Thanksgiving dinner, we may as well have the 3-weeks worth of leftovers, too.

Amanda and the Boy's Thanksgiving dinner (so far):
--mulled wine
--roasted chicken with sage and herbes de Provence
--cornbread stuffing
--bourbon sweet potatoes
--spiced cranberry sauce with pear
--brussels sprouts au gratin/green bean casserole*
--maple apple crisp a la mode
--pumpkin gooey butter cake**

So, internets, what are YOU having for Thanksgiving?

--amanda

-------------------
*I haven't decided which one to make yet.
**Just because I don't like pumpkin pie doesn't mean I don't like pumpkin -- quite the opposite! And we need a pumpkin dessert.

Too Good!

2008-10-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

And now, for something completely different:
Neil Patrick Harris and Jason Segal from"How I Met Your Mother" sing the confrontation song from Les Miserables.

It is so much more awesome than you would think. And, yes, I know you're thinking awesome on the level of unicorn tears.

via The Park Bench

I have to say, I'm a little shocked at how good NPH does Javert. I've heard him sing as Toby from Sweeney Todd, which is really high (originally a boy soprano), it's no where near the range of Javert (baritone to bass-baritone). That he's so powerful (and can sing so low!) is really awesome.
But the real standout in my eyes is Jason Segal. He sounds eerily similar to original Valjean Colm Wilkinson.

I have to admit, I've watched the video about 4 times now, and it never gets old. It's amazing every damn time.

I wonder where my old musical soundtracks are ....

--amanda

Love is All You Need

2008-10-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Body,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sorry for not wearing my glasses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love with all my heart,
amanda

Goodbye, Victorian Rose

2008-10-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I received wind of some particularly sobering news this morning: American Girl has announced that they are discontinuing the entire line of Samantha dolls. For good. Tears all around.

Samantha was my absolute favourite, but she wasn't my introduction to the American Girl series.* I remember seeing her picture in the catalog and falling in love with her because we shared a hairstyle (I could be a very shallow 8 year old, but at least I liked to read historical fiction). But really, Samantha was the bomb-diggity. She was incredibly rich, with all the best toys -- her party set was THE best thing a girl could have: little painted petit fours, a working ice cream maker, and don't get me started on her fabulous wardrobe! Fur muffs! Velvet dresses! LINED PURSES, YA'LL. I seem to remember a steamer trunk, too, but I can't be quoted on that.

But despite her very My Super Sweet Sixteen-seeming lifestyle, Samantha was the tops as a girlfriend. She was BFF with her maid/"servant girl" Nellie, and somehow, the relationship didn't seem contrived or condescending. Samantha truly saw a kindred spirit in poor illiterate Nellie, and it didn't matter the stations they were born into.

Samantha was witness to a changing world (really, most of the girls were) and her experiences shaped a lot of little (real) girls' view of history and the world around them. Samantha's grandmother was a hard-ass Victorian prude, but her beloved uncle and his glamourous girlfriend were automobile-owning suffragettes! Samantha was privileged, but she was by no means sheltered. I remember reading the historical notes at the back of "Samantha Learns a Lesson" and crying over the pictures of children working in factories. I had no idea how good I had it, and neither had Samantha. Petting her long brown curls, I realised that we had both learned a lesson about the world and it's cruelty.

R.I.P. Samantha Parkington, raddest American girl of them all. (Kit Kitredge is a punk.)

--amanda

-------
*That would be Felicity, the spunk sprightly colonial girl ... or something to that effect. My grandmother gave me her entire set of books one Christmas and I read them until they fell apart. I blame Felicity for my love of colonial American history.

#184: Jump in with your clothes on

2008-10-13T17:55:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm supposed to be writing a paper*, but instead I've been spending time poring over what is quite possibly the sweetest website ever: 1001 rules for my unborn son.

I've made it known that should I ever have a son, I plan on raising him to be a gentleman. The author of this website appears to have the same agenda I do. It's filled with advice, sometimes common sense, sometimes hard-won knowledge. All of it is heartfelt, humorous, and true.

While some of the rules are submitted by readers, it is plain that whoever is lucky enough to have the site's author as a father is blessed indeed.

--amanda

-------------
*It seems that college is nothing more than hundreds of term papers of varying lengths and subjects spread out over the course of 4 years.

Barack the Vote!

2008-10-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Are you registered to vote? I sincerely hope so, since a lot of state deadlines have already passed. We're getting so close to the election, and despite what we've been told, every vote counts.

I know a lot of people who refuse to vote simply because they don't like the candidates. I think this is unbelievably selfish, especially within the context of this election. Simply look at the candidates' voting records and you can see the ramifications of a non-vote. Look beyond your own personal misgivings and think about how the presidency in the hands of Candidate A would be be different from Candidate B. Consequences people; nothing occurs in a vacuum.

I would like to say that this is perhaps one of the most important elections in history, and it's true. We have the opportunity to vote a minority into the White House -- why this hasn't happened before, I don't know. But it's more than that: women's rights are on the table, inexplicably, Roe v. Wade is on the table.

I wasn't going to write a pro-voting post, but reading about a 106 year-old nun voting for the first time in 52 years is an incredible inspiration.
So please: do like Sister Cecilia and vote.

--amanda

A Letter to Someone

2008-10-08T18:53:00.000-07:00

Dear AIG,

I want my money back.

--amanda

La Cocinetta

2008-10-03T22:40:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-09-30T21:44:00.001-07:00

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

Heaven is an endless library

2008-09-28T22:43:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I love to read, and always have. I was a solitary child, and so spent much of my time holed up in my room reading. I would escape to far off places, befriend whole worlds of new people; books are my escapist drug.
I'm also aware that it's somewhat en vogue to pretend to be dumb(er), and to shown disdain for reading. I also think that's incredibly stupid. While I often struggled to fit in -- and honestly, still do -- I never pretended that reading was a chore. So many beautiful things lie buried in those words, waiting for our imaginations to set them free!

As an intense bibliophile, I carry around long lists of "To Read" books. I have a list entered in my BlackBerry, another in the Boy's iPhone, and a Moleskin notebook with a list 4 pages long. I can never visit a bookstore without padding out my beloved lists.

And here's another one: 75 Books Every Woman Should Read, as determined by Jezebel (and Jezebel commentators). A response to Esquire's 75 Books Every Man Should Read, Jezebel created a woman-centric list that provides a yin to Esquire's yang. (I bet they would love to hear that!)

I've become increasingly ... upset, I suppose, by my current preoccupation with what I call "mac-n-cheese" literature. Mostly chick lit, and picked mostly for their nonsensical plots, bad writing, and incomprehensible page-turning addictiveness, I feel I've been rotting my brain with books that, while easy to digest, are not particularly stimulating.

So, I've decided to read all 150 novels (yes, both lists for sake of a well-rounded reading experience). I've already completed 26 of the tomes over the years, and am currently making my way through Flannery O'Conner's A Good Man is Hard To Find, which I am absolutely falling in love with. Granted, I've long been an admirer of the short story (Salinger, holla!), so O'Conner's brutal prose is right up my alley.

I invite you, dear reader(s ?) to join me in this epic quest of required reading. Naturally, I'm not going to limit myself to just these books -- sometimes, you just need some mac-n-cheese to better appreciate the prime rib -- but I would love to form a sort of book club with someone, plowing through these greats of literature. I'm trying to convince the Boy to join me: I bought him Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried and Jack London's Call of the Wild, two books that brought me to tears, but he's in the "reading's not for me" camp right now.

What do you think? Interested in joining me in this purely intellectual experiment? Read any of the books and have opinions that burn like the clap? Tell me! I love talking books.

--amanda

You know, when I was a kid, I always thought I'd grow up to be a hero.

2008-09-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I was planning on writing a blog post, since I haven't written one in a while, but I was greeted with this headline: Paul Newman dies at 83. And now I'm so heartbroken, I can't do much of anything.

He was such a great guy: absolutely gorgeous, deeply humble, a devout philanthropist (his delish Newman's Own brand generated approximately $175 million dollars for charity -- he didn't make a cent), an amazing actor, and an all-around gentleman.

I keep thinking about his wonderful relationship with his family -- his wife in particular -- and making a :-( with my whole heart.

Newman was half of one of the most successful showbiz marriages -- to Joanne Woodward whom he married in 1958. He observed that just because he was a sex symbol there was no reason to commit adultery.

"Why would I go out for a hamburger when [I] have steak at home?" he asked.

R.I.P. Paul, a truly great man.

(Now excuse me while I watch my favourite movie ever, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and weep.)

--amanda

In what way, Charlie?

2008-09-15T23:25:00.001-07:00

[Edit: arg! The videos aren't embedding properly. Links to the NBC website instead.]

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm sure you've seen it already, and it's been discussed to death over the water cooler, but how awesome were Tina Fey and Amy Poehler as Gov. Sarah Palin and Sen. Hillary Clinton? TOO AWESOME, for sure. It almost makes me want to watch SNL again. (Then again, Tina made me want to watch again after she hosted and endorsed Hillary, but that never happened ...)

At any rate, Tina was spot on as Palin, but really, it was all about Poehler in my mind. The little eye-bug? Her sarcastic undercuts? Were just as amazing as Fey's rifle-pose.

But my absolute favourite part? "I invite you to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine." That, right there folks, is my new mantra.
"I can see Russia from my house!" is my new catchphrase.

--amanda

P.S. Yes, I am supposed to be working on my mass media paper ... what of it?

Cave + Bookshelf = LOVE

2008-09-12T00:13:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

You know how I said I found my dream home? It was missing something. Namely, this:

A CAVE BOOKSHELF.

It's totally earned a spot in this bibliophile's heart. Now if I can find 5,000 Euro, it will have a spot in my home.

--amanda

Drool Worthy Design

2008-09-10T23:40:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I think I found my dream home.

all found via Design*Sponge

Mid-century modern coupled with a craftsman-style apartment in Oakland? Bright pops of colour? I'm 100% sold.

Naturally, I'm head-over-heels for Christine's e-store LAMA (the sick Katrina pillow on the bed can be found there), and subsequently have a wish-list as long as my arm. Now I have an apartment to covet, too.

--amanda

Call Me Baby

2008-09-09T21:44:00.001-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I'm one of those people who names just about everything: my computer (Betty), my iPod (BrickLove*), my car (Lokelani). I'm also the special kind of crazy that names things that don't exist quite yet, like my future dogs (2, named Benito and Gunther) and, well, my possible future children. Yep. I'm one of THOSE girls.

I seriously believe that our names affect who we grow up to be. A shitty name -- or nickname, for that matter -- can scar a psyche for life. Personally, I HATED being called Mandy. It really doesn't suit me, and I resent the fact that the name is linked forever with that Barry Manilow song. However, Amanda was -- is? -- a very popular name, and just about every class I've been in has at least one other "Amanda".
As a result, I want to name my kids something more unique, so they'll never be saddled with being "Ava 1" or "Jacob 4".

But on the other hand, there are parents who look at naming their children like a personal challenge. The couple that creates the most bizarre name, wins. What the prize is, other than years of therapy is beyond me. Here is a repository of those horrible baby names, with biting commentary to boot. Just about every entry made me giggle out loud, so unless you are made of stone, don't read the website unless you're prepared to laugh.

--amanda

ETA: This is a great article about the seemingly ridiculous-sounding African American baby names. Wonderfully written food for thought.

-----------
*It pairs nicely with my iTune library, "Feck Off, Cup!" Points if you can name that reference.

Turn it On (Again)

2008-09-05T22:03:00.001-07:00

A conversation between me and the Boy, held last night.

Me: Wanna hear about something freaky I found on the internets?

Boy: Uh. Sure. I think.

Me: Michael Phelps SWITCHPLATES.

Boy: (looks excited) Really?!

Me: What. Why are you so happy about this? You're scaring me.

Boy: Dude, that's bitchin! (makes a stabbing motion) Bam! You just got stabbed -- by Michael Phelps, bitch!

Me: (laughing) Oh my God, no, I said switchplates, not switchblades!

Boy: (disappointed) Aw, damn. That would've been awesome. (makes stabbing motion again) I just stabbed you AND I won eight gold medals! (thinks quietly for a moment) So ... switchplates?

Me: Yeah, like for light switches. I looked through them and was thinking that they totally missed out on some hilarious places to put the switches.

Boy: Like putting the dual switches on his arms, so when he's swimming, his arms flip up and down.

Transcribing this is convincing me that someone really needs to do this. I might consider buying one just for the novelty value of being able to flip Michael's "arms".

Turn it On

2008-09-05T01:11:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

Someone likes this photo a hell of a lot more than I do.

The truly creepy part? There are so many more to choose from. And that's just one store!

Etsy: taking the Michael Phelps love to a whole new level.

--amanda

Reality Check, One, Two

2008-09-04T20:04:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I've been told that religion and politics are never topics for pleasant conversation. And I've pretty much held to that piece of advice. I'm extremely passionate, opinionated, and infuriatingly stubborn, and while I might be a small percentage of people who possess that particular holy trinity of traits, just about everybody can get worked up into a lather over religion and politics.

When I started this blog, I decided that religion and politics would be off-limits, just like in my real life. I'm about to break that rule now, but this will not be a breeding ground for my liberal politics, just as I'm not really opening this oft-ignored blog into a forum to discuss the presidential race.

I'm genuinely terrified of a McCain presidency. Genuinely terrified. His track record regarding women's rights is appalling, and honestly, pulling a uterus onto his ticket doesn't come close to making up for that. In fact, it scares me more. I am worried that they believe that having a woman V.P. would draw votes simply for the novelty. I am worried that they believe that people are dumb enough to believe that a vote for Palin is similar to a vote for Hillary -- and I'm worried that they're right. I'm really, really worried about what they would do to our country should they -- God forbid -- win.

Full disclosure: I wasn't an Obama supporter from the beginning. I still have my reservations about him. My vote will 100% be a vote in favour of the lesser of two evils -- which, I must continue to admit is not the best phrase to describe how I feel about this. I don't particularly like peas, but if the alternative is eating nuclear waste, hand over the peas. I'll eat peas every day, and while it may not be the cake I wanted, it's not bad, and it's not nuclear waste.

Which is how I feel about the election: something I'm not all jumpity-excited over, but can live with vs. something that chills my bones and keeps me awake at night.

While I'm not a 100%, true-blue Democrat, I do believe that Obama is the beacon of hope that this country needs. He promises change, and I think that, while he is young and relatively (to McCain) inexperienced, he is far from "more of the same". And no matter what lies the Republicans tell, they are more of the same. Possibly worse, because they say these lies and believe them.

I will vote, even though my favourite candidate did not win the Democratic nomination. I will vote because I love this country, flawed as it is, and I know we can make it better. I know it can be better. And I know that, despite that it's been touted so many times it's now a cliche, we need to change for the better. I need to believe in that change, because what we need now is a reason to hope for a future better than the one we're currently experiencing.

I vote in favour of hope. Come November, I'm voting for change.

--amanda

Pillow Fight

2008-09-01T16:52:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction? "Ew. Yeah."

And then I fell over dead.

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

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

--amanda

La Vida y la Muerte

2008-08-30T16:05:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

I feel a bit late to the party (again), but lord am I going bananas for Etsy.

I'm not completely new to Etsy, though. I bought a Christmas present for my mother last year from a seller. It was a great experience, really; the jewelry was beautifully handcrafted and reasonably priced. I don't know why I didn't really throw myself into the website until just recently, but I'm 100% thrown.

One of my absolute, hands-down favourite stores in the history of consumerism? ArtofSkulls. Despite the fact that they scared the poopie out of me as a kid, I'm now completely mad for Dia de los Muertos skulls. I want one in every colour and motif.
Really, this should come as no surprise, since they're a bit kitsch-y, tend to be obnoxiously coloured, and all-around over-the-top in terms of wall art. I'm not all that superficial: I really like that they celebrate death, not view it as something to be feared. Death should not be mourned as the passing of an individual, it should be a celebration of the amazing life they led! The fact that they are reminders of mortality isn't morbid -- it's a reminder to live a beautiful life.

Now, who wouldn't want that?

--amanda

P.S. I should admit that I already have calaveras art -- I bought a shadowbox/diorama while in Mexico City of calaveras mariachis serenading a lady calavera. I think that it'd go exceedingly well with whatever skull(s) I purchase.

P.P.S. If you're following my Twitter updates, I mentioned a painting of that the Boy did not approve of. Despite the fact that it's a camel, not a llama, I bought it earlier today. It was just too amazing. Good news for you, though: there's a pink and a green version of the same print.

Beauty Misadventures

2008-08-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

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

Sunny Day

2008-08-21T20:30:00.000-07:00

Part Asian, 2x More Crazy

2008-08-20T21:26:00.000-07:00

Dear No One in Particular,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--amanda

Blog for No One in Particular

On Sanity, Family, and Peanut Butter

No Distance That Could Hold Us Back

Don't Try to Fight the Feeling

More to Love

No Place Like Home

Off To See the Wizard

C'mon Vogue

Happy Valentine's Day, Cupcake!

My Mighty Life List

Passing Moment Gone

Happy Holidays

Shine On

Big Eat Challenge -- 2 for 1

The Big Eat Challenge

A True Story

Working for the Weekend

Cupcake Dreams and Bugaboo Mornings

E Hawaii Aloha e

No Worries

Bad Blogger

Suffer for Fashion, or Whatever

Beauty Misadventures: Smooth Away Layers of Skin!

Voices Soft as Thunder

If I Were ...

What's in a Name?

Epic Fail

Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair

There Must Be Something in Books

"Gym" comes from the Latin for "nest of neuroses"

A Quick Programming Note

Oh, Canada.

Things I Haven't Bought, But Still Love

You Like Me!

Polling the World

Le'chayim!

Aloha HARD.

*insert high-pitched noise here*

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

Kindling

Beauty Misadventures: MyChelle, MyBelle

Sounds about right

Habanera

Make a Man Out of You

Mele Kalikimaka

And now for something completely different ...

Confession: I've never seen any Star Wars movies.

A Pound of Flesh

Big Rock Candy Mountain

Keep on Dancin' to the Rock & Roll

International Dance Party

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

Paint a Vulgar Picture

It still hurts, American Girl. Still hurts.

T-Day minus 4 Days

Beauty Misadventures: Scents for the Streetwalker in Your Life!

La Petite Amelie

El Perro sin Pelo

An (Early) Christmas Letter

No. Way.

Ho'omaika'i 'Ana

My President

Congratulations, President Obama. Congratulations, America.

"I am French! Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?"

Feliz Dia de Los Muertos!

Hope for our Future

T-Day minus One Month

Too Good!

Love is All You Need

Goodbye, Victorian Rose

#184: Jump in with your clothes on

Barack the Vote!

A Letter to Someone

La Cocinetta

Heaven is an endless library

You know, when I was a kid, I always thought I'd grow up to be a hero.

In what way, Charlie?

Cave + Bookshelf = LOVE

Drool Worthy Design

Call Me Baby

insert high-pitched noise here