The Art of Concealment

I love my older sister but she will not give that bag up. No, sir, the bag stays on her lap. From appetizer until dessert it's going to be sitting there all snug and well-fed. She says it's like a security blanket. I say there's nothing wrong with a little overspill on your waistband when you sit. That is perfectly normal. In fact I pity all those people who have never had a flab in their life. Because you know, flabs are there for a reason. Yes. There is a reason of some sort. Don't ask me what. Go away, you.





Aah. The pits. Look, not everyone has the luxury of keeping them completely hairless ALL of the time. Sometimes you forget that they're a bit stubbly. You wear your cool and airy sleeveless shirt and off you go and then you realize that today will have to be one of those days when your forearms will have to do all the work.





How about a round of applause for the permanent hand on waist, brought to us by the Starlets' School of Posing, now an affiliate of Phoenix University, enrollment starting soon? For TV hosts and red carpet celebs and regular women getting their picture taken, it truly is useful in minimizing your batwings. Forget about numbness and the feeling of pins and needles on your flesh. Nothing is more important than the illusion of toned arms.

I am not a stranger to tucking my stomach in. This particular concealment tactic is probably what I'm most guilty of. But I am also not a stranger to wearing an oversized top when I know there's food involved. In fact, from now on I'm not going to bother buying anything in extra small or maybe even small. I am done sucking my gut in. Yeah, no more oxygen deprivation. No more quivers in my abdominals from flexing those muscles. No more crazy eyes from trying to keep my gut safely tucked within my waistband. From this point forward my stomach will live a free life.

Go forth little one, unleash your jelly.

Insult Generator

You know how your expressions and cuss words seem to change every few months or years? How one month everything is, "shit," and the next month it's, "bugle boy butt crack?" Okay, so no one says that but watch out, you might start hearing it... in your mind.

Back in high school we watched Baz Luhrmann's Romeo PLUS Juliet. We were all excited because for the first time we weren't watching a really old snoozefest of a movie and, hello? Leo in the nineties was hot. Fast forward to the last few scenes where a furious Captain Prince says, "All are punish-ED!" Well it only took one of the girls in class to mishear punished for pungent and before you know it everyone's pointing at each other with a look of disgust and a, "you are PUNGENT."

Yeah, that line made the rounds for quite a bit.

Unfortunately, Shakespeare wasn't getting much respect that year. My friend who was crushing on a boy at about the same time we were discussing Romeo and Juliet took to quoting verses from the play. She too must have had a hearing problem because Juliet's line, "you kiss by the book," became, "you kiss like a book." Oh, snap! Romeo just got pwned!

My best friend who is somewhat of a linguist, she speaks French, Spanish, English and Filipino, can still get her words mixed up every once in a while. Maybe it's because she stores too many languages in her brain. I think she meant to say, "I'm disoriented," or, "I'm disturbed." Alas, what came out of her mouth was, "I'm distorted." To this day, "distorted," is our word of choice when one of us starts to not make sense.

So, the next time you feel distorted, look around something pungent must be bothering you. It might be that bugle boy butt crack over there.

Nutritious/ Delicious

I remember this conversation my sister and I had while watching an old Vh1 Divas show with Cher. It started off with one of us saying Cher had to charge her battery pack while Celine Dion was singing. Then it progressed to her having to take her mask off when she got home. It escalated to an image of Cher's mechanical torso, plugged to a wall socket while her head and limbs are unscrewed from her and laid to rest on a pile of velvet cushions.

Thankfully, Cher will never know that on one night, two bored sisters were drafting plans for a Lifetime movie, working title: Do You Believe in Battery Acid? Life After Emblamment.

We were just kidding around. Cher, please do not sic your mechanical hounds on us.

What's nutritious and delicious though is the latest episode of Top Chef Masters. That Ludo "Pepe Le Pew" Lefebvre is a gem! I don't remember him being that entertaining last season. That man should be on TV. My favorite bit is when he started insulting British cooking and then concluded that British judge Jay Rayner is jealous of him. And when he tells Wylie Dufresne to enjoy a bag of carrots in his room, that was great.





And you can tell that whoever was editing that episode was amused by Ludo too. They kept airing bits of him saying, "fish and chips," when he was obviously having some difficulty saying those words, "Rick want the fish and chips, like a child... the fish and cheeps.. fishycheeps... fisheeps... feeshesh... fshshshchsh" I must say, I don't really like Top Chef Masters as much as the regular Top Chef, but this episode, it was golden!

I Want (What I Want)

Now that it's properly spring time, I want to buy myself a few objects. They're not much. I actually did some reconnaissance at the the shops the other day but I came home with nothing. Unless I count the almost-blister on my foot.

I want a deep v-neck. It's been around for a while but I haven't gotten around to wearing one. I think it's because I can see myself fussing with it and making sure the shirt doesn't move about. I've changed my mind. And now I would like to introduce the world to the mystical flatlands that is my chest!



And then I would like a dark wash, skinny jean that's hemmed a touch above the ankle. I want it skinny but not in jeggings-territory. I admit that at times the jegging can be strangely appealing but the combination of denim, or even an approximation of denim, and an elastic waistband scares me.




Now, you didn't hear this from me, but a little bird told me that there is a very special store that not only offers the best skinny jean, but, for a fee they can also reduce your thighs to Alexa Chung proportions. A warning, the procedure is seductive and if you are not careful this may happen to you:




And then I just want a pair of aviator sunglasses that fit my face. I've only worn big old frames and they're beginning to bore me. I like how aviator shades can make you look like a badass. Or just like an ass, it can go either way, whatever.

The Importance of Symmetry

I have learned, from years of tweezing my brows and having one eye that's slightly smaller than the other, that it is very important to take a step back and take a good look at your face in the mirror. Asking yourself the following questions might help.

Are your brows still visible from where you are standing?

Does one brow look like it belongs to someone else's face?

Do your brows look short?

Is the other brow gone?

Will you need to draw your eyebrows with a Sharpie tomorrow morning?

Are you feeling symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome?

Are you a man?

Do you think Hilary Rhoda's brows are too thick?

If you are given a million dollars to shave your eyebrows off every day for the rest of your life, will you do it?

If you are given the perfect body (whatever your idea of one is) with no dieting or exercising required in exchange for bushy eyebrows for the rest of your life, will you accept?

Is it just me, or do cats sometimes creep you out?

Do you like your pasta swimming in sauce (because if you do there is nothing wrong with that)?

So, there you have it, the secret to sexy, groomed brows for life!

Mean Thoughts and Nudedragons

You try to control them but sometimes they just slip out. They're sneaky like that.

Speaking of sneaky, thanks a lot NUDEDRAGONS aka DANGERSOUND aka SOUNDGARDEN! I have never hit the refresh button as much as I did this morning trying to get tickets to your surprise/ secret show. I didn't get that email with the password until about three hours after the tickets went on sale. Then I actually signed up on twitter to join your scavenger hunt. And I kept checking your website and Chris Cornell's. And the thought that some kind of Temple of the Dog thing might happen tonight just gave me more anxiety. And then I couldn't concentrate on anything all day thinking maybe, just maybe more tickets would become available.

Now look at the state of my fingers!

Soft Silky Scraggly And Split Ended

My first memory of beautiful hair was from a Barbie coloring book. I especially liked the close-ups. Barbie. Tight shot. Gorgeous, flowing hair. I would fill in the lines with varying shades of mahogany, burnt sienna and blondie blond. Okay I just made that last color up. It was so much fun giving Barbie highlights and lowlights. My older sister liked the close-ups too. Her thing was putting make-up on Barbie's face.



It was also around this time when my very first hair nightmare happened. My older sister had some bright idea to cut me some bangs! Let me set it up for you. I was four. She was eight. One day while the parents were away, she comes up to me with a sly look in her face. In her hand was a pair of pink plastic scissors. These were classroom scissors, you know, the kind that can barely cut paper. So she pulls me into the bathroom, locks the door and she snips away. Snip snip snip. Giggle giggle. Yeah, it was fun. FOR HER.

Bangs are meant to kind of kiss your eyebrows, right? Not the bangs I had just acquired. Nooo. More like kiss my SCALP!!! Seems like my sister had an avant garde streak. That, or a bad case of the shakes rarely seen in children. To my regret, it happened around Christmas and many a photograph has captured that bad hair episode.

I used to try to tame my hair into obedience. Lots of blow drying and hot oils with the hope that it would be nice and straight. Didn't happen. Allow me to illustrate. If you would, close your eyes and imagine a human head. Then, picture its hair as you would a pyramid. A slight one but a pyramid nonetheless, a kind of triangular afro but with strands of hair that can't decide if it wants to be wavy or straight. Right.

I have since made peace with my hair. I have accepted that it really is some kind of wavy/ straight hybrid with a sprinkling of frizz. On a good day it's actually not bad.

Unless I decide to tie it into a high ponytail.

Take a look, I made it extra special, in silhouette.

Pork Chops

Spotted by Rainier Ave:



I wonder if anyone called. The chances are good as the Pacific Northwest climate yields very interesting behavior.

Speaking of chances, you know what has no chance of lasting when placed in front of me right now? Pork Chops. Specifically Tea Garden's (also on Rainier) Salt and Pepper Pork Chops. I've been thinking about them since last night. They're lightly battered. Very juicy on the inside, some pieces with a little bit of fat. Then they're tossed with salt and finely chopped hot peppers. It's super salty goodness, the kind that will make your ankles swell with joy (and pain). My sister is a big fan. She will walk away from those pork chops with the beginnings of a rash around her lips from the spiciness.

When you're in a restaurant do you order a salad? Just wondering. I personally wouldn't order something I can make myself. Like, oh, I don't know, a plate of chopped lettuce with some dressing, a grilled cheese sandwich. Or, a piece of boring, skinless, boneless, chickenless chicken breast with two asparagus spears and a garnish of curly parsley. Although I did have a moment of weakness on one of my visits back home in Manila. This restaurant had a salad with fried kesong puti and calamansi dressing. I will admit that was one tasty salad.

I just drooled a little on my keyboard. YUCK.




But habitual salad-ordering? No thanks. I think I'd rather spend my money on something more substantial.

The Business of Making Jokes

I used to work for an airline that rhymes with fourthpest but it merged with another company that rhymes with shmelta. I took phone calls from customers who wanted to purchase tickets or make changes to their flights or just ask some questions.

Most days, you deal with reasonable people with a good grasp of proper phone etiquette. Other days you are in a nightmare where there is only a full moon which drives people mad and the clocks in the building never make it past your eighth hour of work and all the bathroom cubicles are locked and your bladder is about to burst and no matter the number of coffees you've inhaled you're only still half awake and there's been a bank error and you are never getting paid and your supervisor keeps walking behind your desk and look! He has a tail and goat hooves and high heels! On his hooves! Someone wake me up!!! Noooo! I didn't just dream the last six months where I finally left that job did I?

Okay. Calm down. Wow. Those memories are potent. I still recall the occasional yawn in my ear from a customer. I let that slide. Even the burp, I ignored that. The one where the caller says, "where can I go that's cheap? Tell me where to go," okay, that made the veins in my forehead throb a little but that's all right, we can talk. The TV in the background or the radio blasting? I worked through it. The dirty jokes? That's all right because I enjoyed hanging up on those pervs. The toilet flushing? I gagged silently and pretended that didn't happen. The excessive chitchat? The extended how-are-you-how's-the-weather? Fine. I'd choose friendly over short anytime.

But what really raised my blood pressure, what used to drive me over the edge was after I answered whatever question they asked and the response I got was, "are you kidding?" Or they would change it up a bit and say, "are you joking?" Or, "is that a joke?" Or, "are you serious?"

Yeah. That was the worst. I can't even explain why it drove me mad. It's such a common, offhand response. And I get that my answer might not have been what they had hoped for. And yet, and yet it made me want to break my keyboard over the monitor and then pull the phone and toss it out the window. And that's after I tell them that I am not in the business of making jokes. And that I believe they did not dial 1-800-JOKETIME. And that it's too bad their lives are lacking in laughs and that they're looking for LOLz in all the wrong places. And that I'm sorry that the Clown and Co. hotline was busy BUT WOULD THEY MIND TRYING AGAIN LATER?!?!



And since I've put myself in a ranting mood. I would like to give a shout out to one of the bosses of the office whose shoes were always tight. Look, it's bad enough that your eyes glazed over when we asked serious questions but to have to deal with the flesh spilling over the straps of your outdated maryjanes was just too much. Hey, Boss, how are you? Just kidding! I don't really want to know!

Best Case/ Worst Case

I'm really liking the idea of a long slinky skirt. Paired with a tee and a trim moto jacket or a simple sweater I think it would make you look like tall drink of water.



You'd be all, "oh I know my legs are long, don't look at them," giggle giggle.

On the other end of the spectrum, it could go very badly. The long skirt could swallow someone like me who's about 5'5". All right, 5'4". Okay I'm 5'3 and 3/4". And if I attempt to wear a long skirt that doesn't fit well I will most likely resemble someone Blackadder called, Stumpy Legs McNoLegs.

Here, take a look:





I also like the concept of menswear-inspired trousers. They're easy and low-waisted. You can haphazardly roll the cuffs and wear a cute striped top.



Then you can wear a belt because, you know, you have a 22 inch waist and, oh my, even the belt is too big for you so you had to add another notch with an x-acto knife. And you're known as an effortless dresser with a bit of a quirky side and all your shoes incite jealousy amongst your peers.

Worst case? I think you already know what the worst case is:




Right-o, that little fella in the middle is Oliver Twist. He too is a fan of rolled cuffs.

When winter comes I always think: this is the year I will wear hats. I dream of dark-colored cloches and vampy lip color. I imagine a beret laying on my head at just the right angle. I can almost hold a soft beanie in my hand. Most of all I dream of warm ears and the non-existence of hat head.





And then I actually start trying on hats and I simply have to face reality. Yes, my skull is odd-shaped and on the small side that hats just don't work. I mean, maybe I could force it.






Eeeh. Maybe not.

April 5th and the Dangers of People Watching

Last Friday we took our guest to the majestic Snoqualmie Falls. We only managed to stand at the observation deck for a few minutes before the wind and rain rendered our umbrellas and jackets useless.



Then we headed over to the posh Salish Lodge and Spa. It really was a gorgeous looking place with lots of coppery light fixtures and blazing fireplaces and a cozy library I wish I owned. We had lunch at their dining room where my sister exercised her imagination on an unsuspecting family.



About the food though, we demolished their bread and their butter. The butter was nice and soft as exhibited by the smooth quarter inch thick spread I slathered on my bread. What? There's nothing wrong with a little high quality butter every once in a while. You would think that being a lodge and spa, that they'd serve some grainy bread with a sprinkling of nutty, seed-like bits and then instead of butter they would pour a little bit of laxative-infused olive oil. But they didn't.

While waiting for our entrees, we noticed a family of five at a nearby table. The mom was minding her infant child and the dad was looking after the two other boys. The dad ordered a bottle of what appeared to be beer. He sipped it slowly and with a sullen look on his face. My sister had the best view so she was narrating. She then gasped because she saw the dad let one of the boys drink his beer. Not just one sip but a lot. We concluded that the dad was depressed and bad at parenting. That he couldn't wait to finish lunch so he can call first his girlfriend then his dealer and that his son will most likely grow up with a tendency toward alcoholism. Yup, that's what we thought until the dad turned the bottle a certain way and we saw the label which said:

ROOT BEER

Moving on, our kind server William brought out our mussels and clams, grilled portobello mushroom sandwich with fries, creamy root vegetable soup, caesar's salad (with balsamic vinegar) and french onion soup. Everything was delicious. But, something about the too-peaceful ambience and prices kind of made me want to head to a Burger King and then stuff my face with a whopper immediately afterwards. I don't know why.



Oh, by the way (by the way),



Layne Staley
August 22, 1967 - April 5, 2002