Monthly Archives: April 2013

The Glamorous Girl’s Diet (Updated)

HGB suggests that your work day “glamour girl” lunch should be veggies, fruits and non-fat yogurt OR a wedge of cheese.  This is a very good suggestion, these are all good foods, but my usual workday lunch, which I eat at my desk, is usually a cup of delicious homemade soup, some peanut butter crackers, a banana and a two fun-sized Baby Ruths, because I deserve a treat.

Five hours into my work day and a cup of oatmeal, 6 oz of carrots and a cup of Chobani strawberry banana yogurt later, I. am. STARVING, with only a banana left to get me through the last four hours of my day.

Also, I have a headache  and blurry vision, with bizarre floaters making it nearly impossible to see what’s on my screen like my computer has been taken over by J.J. Abrams.  I don’t know if this is related to my hunger or to the fact that when I did manage to sleep last night (which wasn’t much) I dreamed that B.D. Wong was trying to seduce me into going on a crime spree with him, but whatever it is, it’s making it hard to concentrate.

UPDATE (2:25 p.m.) OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE.  My head feels like someone is hitting the base of my skull with a rubber mallet while stabbing their thumbs into my eyeballs and grinding an awl through my left temple.  I’ve gone past feeling hungry to merely feeling ill.  I have not eaten my banana.  I can’t concentrate and I alternate feeling overheated and freezing.

BUT I WANT YOU ALL TO KNOW that I have NOT touched the Gummy Bears Cathy brought in, EVEN THOUGH I WANT ONE MORE THAN ANYTHING.

UPDATE: (3 p.m.) Ian just texted me to say he  is bringing home more steak, plus shrimp and peppers.  I think he’s taunting me.  Only my sheer Taurus stubbornness is keeping me going.

UPDATE (4:04).  Ate banana. Headache worse, but I think that has more to do with the awful bombing at the Boston Marathon than any mild feelings of hunger.

UPDATE: (4:49) Feck it all.  I’m getting some crackers and trying not to cry from the sheer insanity and cruelty of the world.  Today is too ugly to diet. (not a link to news stuff, I promise)

Kiss & Make Up: Part II

Last night I tried Arlene’s suggestion that I wear pale lipstick to bed.  Now lipstick and I have never gotten along.  Within mere moments of me putting it on, I look like Courtney Love.  I’ve tried Wet ‘n’ Wild, Sephora, Victoria’s Secret (the worst, by far) and nothing, nothing stays on my lips.

I wore a little pink lipstick to bed, and was fully prepared for Ian, who came in after I was asleep, to wake up next to me screaming. But surprisingly, I did not wake up looking like the Joker.  It must have all come off on my pillow, which since I have dark red pillowcases, is just fine.  Because there’s nothing worse than waking up to a screaming husband who thinks you have mutated/OD’d.

Kiss and Make-Up

“I’m all for wearing a few touches of make-up to bed.”  Arlene Dahl, Always Ask a Man.

I barely wear makeup in the daytime, let alone at night.  I never really learned how to put makeup on, (which is something I’ll learn later in this adventure) so it’s always more fuss than it’s worth-my lipstick vanishes, my eyeliner smears and my mascara just makes me look scary.  

But last night I tried Arlene’s tip; with a little blue eyeliner, a little pink sparkly shadow and some black mascara.  Ian looked at me funny when I came out of the bathroom, and I was sure that by the end of the night, I would look like I just got roughed up at a metal concert.

To my surprise, not a whole lot of it was left when I got up.  There was a little hint of eyeshadow and a faint sparkle of eyeliner, but of course, I’m supposed to get up and be ready before Ian even opens his eyes, so I’d have time to redo all of it.

I didn’t, of course, and am now rocking this awesome “partied all night” look, which is, personally, how I kind of dig my makeup anyways.

How To Say “Thank You”

I was weirdly offended by this Buzzfeed post this morning.  For those of you too lazy to follow the link, it’s basically about how men have no right to ever call you pretty and you should shoot them in the face if they dare to approach you.

Okay, it’s a little more in depth than that (although one comic does show a woman shooting a guy’s head off, which, if the roles were reversed, would cause a screaming uproar.  But the gist of it is that no one, not even the president, is allowed to compliment you on your looks.  

This is the kind of thing I’d expect from, in between them praising Cat Marnell as a beacon of feminism and gossiping about Kim Kardashian as a giant slut.

Here’s the thing.  Strangers can’t see your brain.  They can’t read your thesis or see that math problem you’re working in,  You obviously put work into your awesome outfit, and it’s pleasing people, which is nice, because that means you’re a work of art.  People compliment things they enjoy.  They say, “Hey, that was a good movie,” or “hey, I really liked that song,” or “Hey, that meal was delicious.”

So if someone says, “You look pretty,” how about saying, “Hey, thanks,” and moving on with your daily life? 

I had a guy once tell me I looked like I stepped out of a movie because I did.  I’d put a lot of effort into my outfit, this rad vintage dress and little red socks and a headband.  I was glad someone noticed.  I thought it was sweet and told him so.  Then I went to my bus seat and put in my headphones.  That was the end of it.  I didn’t owe him a conversation, so I didn’t give him one and he didn’t pursue it further.  But I also didn’t make a federal case out of it because it wasn’t worth the aggravation.  I like being told I’m pretty, because I know the people who know I’m smart will tell me so.  (Also, I don’t need anyone else’s validation.)

I’m not saying you should respond sweetly to every scumbag who tells you he’d fuck you (because seriously, that’s rude), but how much damage does it do if some guy passing says, “Hey, you look nice today.”  Would it kill you, would you actually wither up and die if you said, “Thank you” and kept walking?  My guess is no.

(The “smile, beautiful” thing does warrant a punch in the face, though, because that’s invasive. That’s a command, not a compliment.)

You don’t owe anybody a date.  You don’t owe anybody a conversation.  But here’s a hint, girls.  Not everyone in the world wants to bone you.  Sometimes, a compliment is just a compliment, meant to bring a little sunshine into a day packed with work and obligations.  And if you don’t want to take a compliment, don’t, but then don’t sit there and complain that everyone is a jerk and no one is polite anymore.  Maybe, just maybe, a more polite world starts with you.  You don’t have to blow every guy who compliments you.  You don’t owe harassers a smile.  But try saying “thanks,” once in awhile.  You might find your world is a little friendlier and maybe you’ll realize that the whole world isn’t out to sexually harass you.

And hey, would it kill you to compliment someone else?  Tell a stranger you like their shoes or their bag or their kicky fedora.  Just kidding, no one likes fedoras.

Oh, Baby

That was some trip, your mother oiling you and patting you all over with scented oil.  The comforting sensation is still with you, isn’t it?  Get acquainted with it again; buy yourself a big bottle of baby oil and keep it on your bathroom shelf.” Stan Place, Stan Place’s Guide to Makeup (1981)

I (and my mother) swore by baby oil when I was growing up.  She bought the lavender-scented gel kind, and all my sisters used it.  In the last few years, I’ve sworn by vitamin E oil, which I buy at Family Dollar and mix with perfume oil for a nice scent.

But I found a bottle when I was cleaning out my father-in-law’s bathroom, and decided to give it a try.  The sensation of rubbing it on is nice, yes, but at the end of the day, while your skin isn’t itchy, it has a strange, papery feeling to it.  Smooth, but not silky or moisturized.

So unless you have some weird diaper fetish, you can do better that J&J.

The Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore

Never top a man’s joke” Arlene Dahl, Always Ask a Man

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  My friend Eeon is the funniest person I know.  We’ve been discussing Justified over email for the past few days, and while I’m writing thoughtful thesis-length essays on Raylan’s contributions to the continuing patriarchy, he’s writing that a better scenario would be if Raylan had a robot sidekick named Wyatt Earp (voiced by Val Kilmer)

Yeah, I can’t top that.  All I could do was laugh until I almost choked, which is my general reaction when I hang out with Eeon (or Pete–the two of them combined are just about deadly.  All the laughing is a good ab workout, though)

Not topping anyone’s joke is a good practice to get into.  There comes a time when someone has just told the funniest story you’re going to hear in that moment, and telling an inferior one will only bring the room down.  We’re so obsessed with having the last word, being the smartest, the funniest, the most awesome, that we stomp all over other people just to be that.

Next time someone tells a joke, just laugh at it.  Tell them they’re funny.  You’ll have time to tell yours a little later, and hopefully, they’ll give you the same generous stage.