Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A smattering
-My bathroom shares a wall with my neighbors' kitchen, which means two things. One, whenever they start banging around in there, I am constantly paranoid that someone has broken into my apartment and is about to go all Norman Bates on my ass, and two, the water temperature in my shower fluctuates wildly whenever they're doing dishes. Which happens to be every single time I'm in the shower. At first I thought maybe their dish-doing schedule was synced up with my shower-taking schedule--it sounds kind of improbable, but I guess it could happen. But when I noticed the same banging sounds and water fluctuation during a random Saturday-afternoon shower, too, I started wondering what was up. Maybe the sound of water from my shower reminds them that they need to do the dishes? Or do they just love washing dishes, so much so that they feel the need to do it all the time? If that's the case, maybe I should invite them over to do my dishes. Preferably while I'm in the shower, so that I can both ensure a consistent temperature and have someone to stand guard against potential attackers.
-For a movie that's about a serial killer and that stars a resident of my freebie list (Jake Gyllenhaal), Zodiac was surprisingly boring. So boring, in fact, that I returned it without even finishing it. Now that I've discovered Netflix and Red Box (side note: If you haven't discovered Red Box, you should--it's a good complement to Netflix, which sometimes requires way too much advance planning), I find myself doing that a lot more than usual. I think it's directly related to the price--if you spend $10 to see a movie in a theater, or even $4 to rent it from a traditional video store, you kind of feel compelled to watch the whole thing, no matter how bad it is. But with these two options, I tend to be like, "Eh, I only paid a dollar or two for this movie--next!"
-For years, I've depended on Television Without Pity to help me waste time during work. But this summer, I've developed a new addiction: travel blogs. My two favorites are The Lost Girls and 1000 Wines, both of which are incredibly well-written and completely fascinating. One of the problems with reading travel blogs, I've discovered, is that they're updated infrequently because, duh, their authors are busy traveling. But since I came across both of these blogs late in the game (the Lost Girls are done with their trip, and C.J. and Brianne from 1000 Wines are nearly a year into their year-and-a-half adventure), catching up on them has been akin to the gluttony of watching a really good TV show on DVD.
-Speaking of new blogs, there has recently been a covert trading of blog information in my office. You see, my co-worker Rachel has been writing a book about dating (yep, she's the next Carrie Bradshaw, only not nearly as whiny and a much better dresser), and she's recently started a blog to accompany it. She very generously shared her blog address with me today, so I felt compelled to respond in kind. And now it's pretty much the same as when Francesca and I traded blog addresses oh so many moons ago, except in this situation, the cool, slightly older kid would be Rachel. Who, as far as I know, has never eaten leaves.
-My bathroom shares a wall with my neighbors' kitchen, which means two things. One, whenever they start banging around in there, I am constantly paranoid that someone has broken into my apartment and is about to go all Norman Bates on my ass, and two, the water temperature in my shower fluctuates wildly whenever they're doing dishes. Which happens to be every single time I'm in the shower. At first I thought maybe their dish-doing schedule was synced up with my shower-taking schedule--it sounds kind of improbable, but I guess it could happen. But when I noticed the same banging sounds and water fluctuation during a random Saturday-afternoon shower, too, I started wondering what was up. Maybe the sound of water from my shower reminds them that they need to do the dishes? Or do they just love washing dishes, so much so that they feel the need to do it all the time? If that's the case, maybe I should invite them over to do my dishes. Preferably while I'm in the shower, so that I can both ensure a consistent temperature and have someone to stand guard against potential attackers.
-For a movie that's about a serial killer and that stars a resident of my freebie list (Jake Gyllenhaal), Zodiac was surprisingly boring. So boring, in fact, that I returned it without even finishing it. Now that I've discovered Netflix and Red Box (side note: If you haven't discovered Red Box, you should--it's a good complement to Netflix, which sometimes requires way too much advance planning), I find myself doing that a lot more than usual. I think it's directly related to the price--if you spend $10 to see a movie in a theater, or even $4 to rent it from a traditional video store, you kind of feel compelled to watch the whole thing, no matter how bad it is. But with these two options, I tend to be like, "Eh, I only paid a dollar or two for this movie--next!"
-For years, I've depended on Television Without Pity to help me waste time during work. But this summer, I've developed a new addiction: travel blogs. My two favorites are The Lost Girls and 1000 Wines, both of which are incredibly well-written and completely fascinating. One of the problems with reading travel blogs, I've discovered, is that they're updated infrequently because, duh, their authors are busy traveling. But since I came across both of these blogs late in the game (the Lost Girls are done with their trip, and C.J. and Brianne from 1000 Wines are nearly a year into their year-and-a-half adventure), catching up on them has been akin to the gluttony of watching a really good TV show on DVD.
-Speaking of new blogs, there has recently been a covert trading of blog information in my office. You see, my co-worker Rachel has been writing a book about dating (yep, she's the next Carrie Bradshaw, only not nearly as whiny and a much better dresser), and she's recently started a blog to accompany it. She very generously shared her blog address with me today, so I felt compelled to respond in kind. And now it's pretty much the same as when Francesca and I traded blog addresses oh so many moons ago, except in this situation, the cool, slightly older kid would be Rachel. Who, as far as I know, has never eaten leaves.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Thai breaker
In anticipation of my trip to Thailand (which at that time was just a distant dream, not the nine-weeks-to-go reality that it is now), Diana got me a CD-based language tutorial called Conversational Thai for Christmas last year. The CDs have been languishing in their case for many months, partly because I was kind of intimidated by the challenge of learning an Asian language, and also because I figured it would be better to wait and learn Thai closer to the time when I would actually need to use it. Last week, I realized that if I wanted to hand off the CDs to Bri when I visit her in Cincinnati next month, that time would have to be now. And so the learning began.
Somewhere along the line, I had switched over from intimidated to excited when it came to the prospect of learning Thai. During my endless months of research, I've managed to pick up on a few essential Thai phrases, including "Hello," "Thank you" and "How much is that?" But as the CD program promised conversational Thai, I was very much looking forward to expanding my repertoire of Thai phrases.
So far, though, it seems that "conversational" means we're going to keep having the same conversation over and over again. Seriously. When the teacher dude mentioned at the end of the first lesson that some of the things we'd learned would be repeated in the second lesson, I figured they'd toss off a few of the same phrases at the beginning to get us into it, but then expound on that knowledge with a whole slew new words and phrases. Yeah, not so much. I'm up to lesson 3 now, and so far all I've learned are various permutations of the phrases "Do you understand English/Thai?" and "Are you American/Thai?" I understand the point of repetition as a learning tool, but come on. How slow do they think we are? Adding to the frustration is the fact that half of the stuff they're teaching me is never going to be relevant. I mean, what's the point of me knowing how to ask someone if they're American in Thai? Or knowing how to tell someone they understand English very well in Thai? It seems to me that my native language might be the best one in which to convey these sentiments. (Yeah, I guess you could argue that I'd need to understand if someone says these things to me, but I still don't think I need to repeat them 72 times to be able to do so.) There's also the fact that certain words in Thai are different based on whether the speaker is a man or a woman, which has led to much yelling of, "I don't care! I'm not a man!" at the teacher dude when he asks me how a man would say something.
Perhaps my expectations are too high for a one-size-fits-all language program, and I know the logical thing to do would be to skip ahead in the lessons, but I'm paralyzed by the fear that I'll miss something essential if I do that. Maybe it'll get more exciting soon. But since I've already learned how to say "Don't shoot!" and "Those drugs aren't mine!" from the awesome World Nomads Thai language podcast, I'm not sure how it could possibly get more exciting than that.
In anticipation of my trip to Thailand (which at that time was just a distant dream, not the nine-weeks-to-go reality that it is now), Diana got me a CD-based language tutorial called Conversational Thai for Christmas last year. The CDs have been languishing in their case for many months, partly because I was kind of intimidated by the challenge of learning an Asian language, and also because I figured it would be better to wait and learn Thai closer to the time when I would actually need to use it. Last week, I realized that if I wanted to hand off the CDs to Bri when I visit her in Cincinnati next month, that time would have to be now. And so the learning began.
Somewhere along the line, I had switched over from intimidated to excited when it came to the prospect of learning Thai. During my endless months of research, I've managed to pick up on a few essential Thai phrases, including "Hello," "Thank you" and "How much is that?" But as the CD program promised conversational Thai, I was very much looking forward to expanding my repertoire of Thai phrases.
So far, though, it seems that "conversational" means we're going to keep having the same conversation over and over again. Seriously. When the teacher dude mentioned at the end of the first lesson that some of the things we'd learned would be repeated in the second lesson, I figured they'd toss off a few of the same phrases at the beginning to get us into it, but then expound on that knowledge with a whole slew new words and phrases. Yeah, not so much. I'm up to lesson 3 now, and so far all I've learned are various permutations of the phrases "Do you understand English/Thai?" and "Are you American/Thai?" I understand the point of repetition as a learning tool, but come on. How slow do they think we are? Adding to the frustration is the fact that half of the stuff they're teaching me is never going to be relevant. I mean, what's the point of me knowing how to ask someone if they're American in Thai? Or knowing how to tell someone they understand English very well in Thai? It seems to me that my native language might be the best one in which to convey these sentiments. (Yeah, I guess you could argue that I'd need to understand if someone says these things to me, but I still don't think I need to repeat them 72 times to be able to do so.) There's also the fact that certain words in Thai are different based on whether the speaker is a man or a woman, which has led to much yelling of, "I don't care! I'm not a man!" at the teacher dude when he asks me how a man would say something.
Perhaps my expectations are too high for a one-size-fits-all language program, and I know the logical thing to do would be to skip ahead in the lessons, but I'm paralyzed by the fear that I'll miss something essential if I do that. Maybe it'll get more exciting soon. But since I've already learned how to say "Don't shoot!" and "Those drugs aren't mine!" from the awesome World Nomads Thai language podcast, I'm not sure how it could possibly get more exciting than that.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Dreametaphor
Last night, I had this really odd dream in which a guy in my apartment complex (a made-up guy, as far as I know) had a huge crush on me and was sneaking into my apartment at night when I was asleep to leave me ugly little presents, the likes of which you would find on late-night QVC, in random places. Needless to say, I was a little unnerved by this, especially when I realized that the lock on my door was broken, and there was really no way to secure it. On one occasion, I woke up and caught him in the act, but he managed to slip out the door before I could do more than scream, "Get out!" As the breaking-in and present-leaving continued, I became more and more stressed out. Finally, one afternoon while my mother and I were making the bed (and after I discovered a hideous china figurine hidden between the sheets), I saw him slinking through the living room. I managed to corner him, and proceeded to yell for quite a long time about how you can't just go into people's houses in the middle of the night uninvited because it's just creepy, and he really just needs to give it up because a) I have a boyfriend, and b) even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't go out with him because of the aforementioned creepiness, and that if I saw him or any evidence of him in my house again, I would call the police. Finally, all the screaming seemed to get through to him, and he skulked off, defeated.
When I awoke from this very vivid dream this morning, my first thought was, "Huh. I wonder where that came from." And then it hit me: creepy breaking-and-entering neighbor = mouse. You see, I've recently come across a couple of droppings in my apartment, leading me to believe that my mouse problems may not be as far behind me as I'd hoped. But thanks to this dream, I now know how to handle it: If I see the mouse again, I'll just corner it and make it sit still while I scream about how it's rude to break into people's houses and that I'm never going to go out with it and that I'll call the police if I ever see it in my house again. Brilliant! Why didn't I think of this before?
Last night, I had this really odd dream in which a guy in my apartment complex (a made-up guy, as far as I know) had a huge crush on me and was sneaking into my apartment at night when I was asleep to leave me ugly little presents, the likes of which you would find on late-night QVC, in random places. Needless to say, I was a little unnerved by this, especially when I realized that the lock on my door was broken, and there was really no way to secure it. On one occasion, I woke up and caught him in the act, but he managed to slip out the door before I could do more than scream, "Get out!" As the breaking-in and present-leaving continued, I became more and more stressed out. Finally, one afternoon while my mother and I were making the bed (and after I discovered a hideous china figurine hidden between the sheets), I saw him slinking through the living room. I managed to corner him, and proceeded to yell for quite a long time about how you can't just go into people's houses in the middle of the night uninvited because it's just creepy, and he really just needs to give it up because a) I have a boyfriend, and b) even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't go out with him because of the aforementioned creepiness, and that if I saw him or any evidence of him in my house again, I would call the police. Finally, all the screaming seemed to get through to him, and he skulked off, defeated.
When I awoke from this very vivid dream this morning, my first thought was, "Huh. I wonder where that came from." And then it hit me: creepy breaking-and-entering neighbor = mouse. You see, I've recently come across a couple of droppings in my apartment, leading me to believe that my mouse problems may not be as far behind me as I'd hoped. But thanks to this dream, I now know how to handle it: If I see the mouse again, I'll just corner it and make it sit still while I scream about how it's rude to break into people's houses and that I'm never going to go out with it and that I'll call the police if I ever see it in my house again. Brilliant! Why didn't I think of this before?
Friday, August 10, 2007
Bend it like the back of Beckham's head
I was but a wee lass (OK, fine, I was 19) living in London the first time I witnessed the phenomenon that is David and Victoria Beckham (or Posh and Becks, as they're better known to me and anyone who's ever glanced at a British tabloid for more than a nanosecond). I was familiar with Posh, of course, having been something of a closet Spice Girls fan in the late '90s, and I believe I'd heard that she'd married a soccer star, but I don't think I was quite prepared for the rabid attention paid to this couple by the British press. I mean, in America, if a mediocre singer in a washed-up pop band married a sports star, they'd be doing good to make it onto the C list. But this was Britain, where the average celebrity tends to be more of the Helen Mirren or Judi Dench variety, and therefore not exactly good tabloid fodder. I mean, when was the last time Helen Mirren shaved her head and checked herself into rehab, or Judi Dench snorted some coke and ran her car into a tree? My point exactly. So Posh and Becks became Britain's media darlings.
I was unabashedly fascinated by this spectacle. Mind you, this was a time before celebrity gossip magazines flooded the U.S. market, creating the unholy tabloid trinity of Lindsay, Britney and Paris. I had never seen such a breadth of press coverage devoted to two people. To give you an idea of just how crazy it was, I once saw a picture of Posh and Becks illustrating a newspaper story about how the majority of young couples in Britain were struggling to make ends meet. The caption read something like, "Unlike most of Britain's young couples, Posh and Becks don't have to worry about money." Insane. Adding to my Posh-and-Becks fascination was the rumor (told to us by Hannah and Ann's host family) that the couple's London home was located in our neighborhood. I had my doubts about this one, as I never saw any paparazzi outside when I strolled past, but that didn't stop me from telling everyone I knew that I lived just a couple miles away from Posh and Becks. Plus, there was the fact that David Beckham is really hot, which was what led in part to the purchase of my coveted David Beckham keychain at the Trocadero in Picadilly Circus.
So when Monika mentioned that she had an extra ticket to last night's sold-out D.C. United game against the L.A. Galaxy, I didn't hesitate to snap it up. It was only on the Metro ride over, when I caught a glimpse of a headline in Express, that I learned about Becks' ankle injury and that he might not be able to play. And indeed, I spent most of the first half of the game peering through my binoculars at the back of David Beckham's head as he swilled Gatorade on the bench. At about the 40-minute mark, he got up and began to warm up on the sidelines, causing a bit of a frenzy among the packed stadium (and among Monika and me, as we excitedly passed the binoculars back and forth). However, that was nothing compared to the mayhem that ensued at minute 70 when Becks pulled off his warm-up jacket (necessitating a mad grab for the binoculars by yours truly), pulled on his jersey and prepared to take the field. Instantly, the crowd was on its feet (some of us may have even been jumping up and down...), thousands of flashbulbs flashed, and the stadium echoed with cheers (and a few boos).
At first, I was a little disappointed by what turned out to be an underwhelming 20-minute performance by Becks, but then I reminded myself that his soccer skills are not why I love him. No, the appeal of David Beckham for me lies in the media circus that his every move creates, which was in full force last night for what turned out to be his MLS debut. Plus, there's the fact that David Beckham is really hot. Especially in person and without his shirt on.
I was but a wee lass (OK, fine, I was 19) living in London the first time I witnessed the phenomenon that is David and Victoria Beckham (or Posh and Becks, as they're better known to me and anyone who's ever glanced at a British tabloid for more than a nanosecond). I was familiar with Posh, of course, having been something of a closet Spice Girls fan in the late '90s, and I believe I'd heard that she'd married a soccer star, but I don't think I was quite prepared for the rabid attention paid to this couple by the British press. I mean, in America, if a mediocre singer in a washed-up pop band married a sports star, they'd be doing good to make it onto the C list. But this was Britain, where the average celebrity tends to be more of the Helen Mirren or Judi Dench variety, and therefore not exactly good tabloid fodder. I mean, when was the last time Helen Mirren shaved her head and checked herself into rehab, or Judi Dench snorted some coke and ran her car into a tree? My point exactly. So Posh and Becks became Britain's media darlings.
I was unabashedly fascinated by this spectacle. Mind you, this was a time before celebrity gossip magazines flooded the U.S. market, creating the unholy tabloid trinity of Lindsay, Britney and Paris. I had never seen such a breadth of press coverage devoted to two people. To give you an idea of just how crazy it was, I once saw a picture of Posh and Becks illustrating a newspaper story about how the majority of young couples in Britain were struggling to make ends meet. The caption read something like, "Unlike most of Britain's young couples, Posh and Becks don't have to worry about money." Insane. Adding to my Posh-and-Becks fascination was the rumor (told to us by Hannah and Ann's host family) that the couple's London home was located in our neighborhood. I had my doubts about this one, as I never saw any paparazzi outside when I strolled past, but that didn't stop me from telling everyone I knew that I lived just a couple miles away from Posh and Becks. Plus, there was the fact that David Beckham is really hot, which was what led in part to the purchase of my coveted David Beckham keychain at the Trocadero in Picadilly Circus.
So when Monika mentioned that she had an extra ticket to last night's sold-out D.C. United game against the L.A. Galaxy, I didn't hesitate to snap it up. It was only on the Metro ride over, when I caught a glimpse of a headline in Express, that I learned about Becks' ankle injury and that he might not be able to play. And indeed, I spent most of the first half of the game peering through my binoculars at the back of David Beckham's head as he swilled Gatorade on the bench. At about the 40-minute mark, he got up and began to warm up on the sidelines, causing a bit of a frenzy among the packed stadium (and among Monika and me, as we excitedly passed the binoculars back and forth). However, that was nothing compared to the mayhem that ensued at minute 70 when Becks pulled off his warm-up jacket (necessitating a mad grab for the binoculars by yours truly), pulled on his jersey and prepared to take the field. Instantly, the crowd was on its feet (some of us may have even been jumping up and down...), thousands of flashbulbs flashed, and the stadium echoed with cheers (and a few boos).
At first, I was a little disappointed by what turned out to be an underwhelming 20-minute performance by Becks, but then I reminded myself that his soccer skills are not why I love him. No, the appeal of David Beckham for me lies in the media circus that his every move creates, which was in full force last night for what turned out to be his MLS debut. Plus, there's the fact that David Beckham is really hot. Especially in person and without his shirt on.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Quizzical
Last night, I participated in my first-ever pub quiz, under the tutelage of pub-quiz veteran Daimon. Honestly, it's kind of surprising that I'd never done a pub quiz before, being the big fan that I am of both trivia and beer. And, you know, having once lived in England for three and a half months. But anyway.
While I enjoyed the quiz itself immensely (despite the fact that I arrived too late to take part in what would have undoubtedly been my strongest category, '90s Pop Culture), I think my favorite part of the evening was hearing the team names. My two favorites: Don't Barack My Heart and Nicole Richie's Hungry Fetus. However, both of these teams clearly put way too much thought into choosing a name and not enough into answering the questions, as even with our mediocre score (how am I supposed to remember all six noble gases when I haven't so much as glanced at a periodic table since 1997?), we managed to beat both of them. Still, next time I'll make sure I get there well before the first round. Because while I may no longer have the periodic table memorized, I can certainly still recall how Scott died on 90210.
Last night, I participated in my first-ever pub quiz, under the tutelage of pub-quiz veteran Daimon. Honestly, it's kind of surprising that I'd never done a pub quiz before, being the big fan that I am of both trivia and beer. And, you know, having once lived in England for three and a half months. But anyway.
While I enjoyed the quiz itself immensely (despite the fact that I arrived too late to take part in what would have undoubtedly been my strongest category, '90s Pop Culture), I think my favorite part of the evening was hearing the team names. My two favorites: Don't Barack My Heart and Nicole Richie's Hungry Fetus. However, both of these teams clearly put way too much thought into choosing a name and not enough into answering the questions, as even with our mediocre score (how am I supposed to remember all six noble gases when I haven't so much as glanced at a periodic table since 1997?), we managed to beat both of them. Still, next time I'll make sure I get there well before the first round. Because while I may no longer have the periodic table memorized, I can certainly still recall how Scott died on 90210.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Who's the gloss?
Not to get anyone's hopes up (least of all mine), but I think I may have found The One. You know, the perfect lip gloss. For lip-gloss junkies such as myself, this is a seemingly endless quest for the ideal combination of texture, color and flavor that can only be likened to the search for the Holy Grail.
My own search began in high school, ironically just when I happened to stumble upon this rare breed of gloss. Sure, I'd always been a lip gloss fan (blame it on the fact that lip gloss was the only "makeup" I could get away with wearing for most of my middle-school years), but until I discovered Naturistics apple lip gloss, I didn't truly understand how perfection could be achieved in a shiny metal tin. I called it my "celebrity beauty product," because I knew that when I eventually became rich and famous and was interviewed by Seventeen magazine, I would name Naturistics apple lip gloss as the one beauty product that I simply couldn't live without.
Except that I didn't become rich and famous, at least not before Naturistics stopped making the apple lip gloss. I had my doubts that that pinnacle of perfection could ever be reached again, but after a couple years of searching, I stumbled upon a replacement that was almost as good: Gap Golden Cranberry lip gloss. The big selling point of Golden Cranberry (other than the delicious flavor) was its design: red and gold glosses swirled together (which made a lovely, rosy, gold-flecked hue ) in a low, wide pot that made it possible to get out every last bit of gloss. The big drawback of Golden Cranberry lip gloss was that it was a special holiday item, which inadvertently turned me into a crazy stockpiler and rationer of lip gloss. (Hannah can vouch for just how crazy I was about this lip gloss, as I got very angry with her one time when she drunkenly helped herself to a huge chunk during a night at the pub.) Eventually, Gap put the gloss in smaller, deeper pots, stopped doing the swirly design, and finally just discontinued it altogether.
Since that time (roughly the end of college), I've been back on the quest for the perfect gloss. I thought I might have found some contenders at Avon (I liked Glow Baby Glow's minty flavor and Gloss Blossom's magical ability to transform from clear-in-the-tube to pink-on-your-lips), but I eventually decided both of these were a little too sticky/shiny for me. Coincidentally (or not), I came to this decision right around the time I moved to D.C., where stores like Sephora, MAC, Lush and Kiehl's opened up a whole new world of gloss possibilities. And so, for the past year, I've been working my way through one high-end gloss after another in a disappointing trail of contenders that are almost but not quite right.
Given my continuing search, when I first read about Alba's Terra Tints in Vegetarian Times, I was intrigued. They promised to be all-natural (that's gotta be good, considering that I've probably consumed at least a pound or two of lip gloss at this point in my life), cheap ($4), and have a sheer tint (a claim that many glosses throw out but very few actually deliver on). I made my way to the nearest Whole Foods to check out this amazing gloss for myself, only to find that the nearest Whole Foods didn't actually have Terra Tints. Fast forward to last weekend when, waiting to check out at the Whole Foods in Silver Spring, I suddenly spied a display of Terra Tints. After somehow managing to knock over almost the whole display while checking out the tester colors, I selected one to buy (despite the fact that I had two almost-new glosses sitting in my purse at the time).
Once I tried it out, I was ecstatic to see that the claim of a sheer, normal-looking color was actually true! Plus, it comes in stick form, meaning it's easy to apply on the go and won't be too sticky. And while the peppermint flavor isn't terribly inventive, it's still better than no flavor at all. Still, after so many years, I'm hesitant to declare my search truly over...especially since there's this German lip gloss that I read about a few months ago in Domino that I've been dying to try. Let's just consider the never-ending search on pause for now.
Not to get anyone's hopes up (least of all mine), but I think I may have found The One. You know, the perfect lip gloss. For lip-gloss junkies such as myself, this is a seemingly endless quest for the ideal combination of texture, color and flavor that can only be likened to the search for the Holy Grail.
My own search began in high school, ironically just when I happened to stumble upon this rare breed of gloss. Sure, I'd always been a lip gloss fan (blame it on the fact that lip gloss was the only "makeup" I could get away with wearing for most of my middle-school years), but until I discovered Naturistics apple lip gloss, I didn't truly understand how perfection could be achieved in a shiny metal tin. I called it my "celebrity beauty product," because I knew that when I eventually became rich and famous and was interviewed by Seventeen magazine, I would name Naturistics apple lip gloss as the one beauty product that I simply couldn't live without.
Except that I didn't become rich and famous, at least not before Naturistics stopped making the apple lip gloss. I had my doubts that that pinnacle of perfection could ever be reached again, but after a couple years of searching, I stumbled upon a replacement that was almost as good: Gap Golden Cranberry lip gloss. The big selling point of Golden Cranberry (other than the delicious flavor) was its design: red and gold glosses swirled together (which made a lovely, rosy, gold-flecked hue ) in a low, wide pot that made it possible to get out every last bit of gloss. The big drawback of Golden Cranberry lip gloss was that it was a special holiday item, which inadvertently turned me into a crazy stockpiler and rationer of lip gloss. (Hannah can vouch for just how crazy I was about this lip gloss, as I got very angry with her one time when she drunkenly helped herself to a huge chunk during a night at the pub.) Eventually, Gap put the gloss in smaller, deeper pots, stopped doing the swirly design, and finally just discontinued it altogether.
Since that time (roughly the end of college), I've been back on the quest for the perfect gloss. I thought I might have found some contenders at Avon (I liked Glow Baby Glow's minty flavor and Gloss Blossom's magical ability to transform from clear-in-the-tube to pink-on-your-lips), but I eventually decided both of these were a little too sticky/shiny for me. Coincidentally (or not), I came to this decision right around the time I moved to D.C., where stores like Sephora, MAC, Lush and Kiehl's opened up a whole new world of gloss possibilities. And so, for the past year, I've been working my way through one high-end gloss after another in a disappointing trail of contenders that are almost but not quite right.
Given my continuing search, when I first read about Alba's Terra Tints in Vegetarian Times, I was intrigued. They promised to be all-natural (that's gotta be good, considering that I've probably consumed at least a pound or two of lip gloss at this point in my life), cheap ($4), and have a sheer tint (a claim that many glosses throw out but very few actually deliver on). I made my way to the nearest Whole Foods to check out this amazing gloss for myself, only to find that the nearest Whole Foods didn't actually have Terra Tints. Fast forward to last weekend when, waiting to check out at the Whole Foods in Silver Spring, I suddenly spied a display of Terra Tints. After somehow managing to knock over almost the whole display while checking out the tester colors, I selected one to buy (despite the fact that I had two almost-new glosses sitting in my purse at the time).
Once I tried it out, I was ecstatic to see that the claim of a sheer, normal-looking color was actually true! Plus, it comes in stick form, meaning it's easy to apply on the go and won't be too sticky. And while the peppermint flavor isn't terribly inventive, it's still better than no flavor at all. Still, after so many years, I'm hesitant to declare my search truly over...especially since there's this German lip gloss that I read about a few months ago in Domino that I've been dying to try. Let's just consider the never-ending search on pause for now.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Butterfingers
Some days I think I shouldn't be allowed out of the house. This morning, as it does every now and then, my brain seemed unable to grasp the extremely complicated concept of picking things up and then holding onto them. First I dropped my hairbrush while brushing my hair, and it fell into the sink in such a way that it turned one of the taps on. Weird. Several minutes later, I repeated this scene with my makeup, only without the magical tap-turning-on action. You'd think that my 45-minute commute might give my brain enough time to wake up, but no, the dropping action continued when I got to work, as I spilled several CDs when rearranging things on my desk and then, for the big climax, let my 34-ounce fake Nalgene bottle slip out of my hands immediately after I had filled the entire thing with water. Immediately following this last feat, I could only stand, drenched and agape, as water pooled on the floor of the kitchen, wondering how it's possible for one person to do so many clumsy things in such a short amount of time.
Some days I think I shouldn't be allowed out of the house. This morning, as it does every now and then, my brain seemed unable to grasp the extremely complicated concept of picking things up and then holding onto them. First I dropped my hairbrush while brushing my hair, and it fell into the sink in such a way that it turned one of the taps on. Weird. Several minutes later, I repeated this scene with my makeup, only without the magical tap-turning-on action. You'd think that my 45-minute commute might give my brain enough time to wake up, but no, the dropping action continued when I got to work, as I spilled several CDs when rearranging things on my desk and then, for the big climax, let my 34-ounce fake Nalgene bottle slip out of my hands immediately after I had filled the entire thing with water. Immediately following this last feat, I could only stand, drenched and agape, as water pooled on the floor of the kitchen, wondering how it's possible for one person to do so many clumsy things in such a short amount of time.
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