Yeah, it's been a hell of a week for Hollywood. In some good ways, such as the heroic journey of Bruce Jenner, and some not so good ways, such as the news from the set of the Adam Sandler film, The Ridiculous Six, currently shooting in New Mexico. The production hired several native american actors and a cultural adviser from the Navajo Nation, the latter because they wanted to the film to have a measure of  accuracy. See, by the time I got that far in the story, my eyes had rolled halfway back to Ohio. Adam Sandler has been making shitty comedies since I was still in high school, and to give you some idea of how long ago that actually was, the theme to my prom was WHOMP! THERE IT IS! Most of Sandler's films center around his character being an idiot and people reacting to that with disappointment, much in the way people reacted to The Three Stooges when they made the transition from mild-mannered business men to kooky, squawking lunatics (and, oh, Jesus, that's the entire premise for the Michael Douglass film Falling Down.) Yes, Sandler went on to some artistic success with director Paul Thomas Anderson in Punch Drunk Love, but keep in mind P.T.A. does so well with a lot of diverse (read: bad) actors because he makes them go against their first instincts. For instance, if the character in Punch Drunk Love was buying a lot of pudding because a certain loophole in the products' promotion allowed him to accumulate a staggering amount of frequent flyer miles, enabling him to travel the world with the woman he loves, Adam Sandler's first instinct as an actor might be to bare his buttocks and dunk them into a vat of the pudding, as though to determine its flavor. This is what makes alternate methods so attractive.

Anyway, eventually, the Native Americans hired to culturally police the set of The Ridiculous Six became irritated and offended by the material and a great number of them left, much like the audience of any Adam Sandler film released after Happy Madison. The Native American actors and the adviser took umbrage as certain aspects of the Sandler-penned script, such as female characters named "Beaver Breath" and "No Bra," a woman portrayed urinating while smoking a peace pipe and inappropriately positioned feathers on a tee pee (I'm guessing in the shape of a penis, or whatever. Don't ask me why.) In addition to all of this, producers seemed to not know or care about the difference between the different tribes, and, when approached with all of this, suggested that if the Native Americans were so sensitive, they should just leave. 

So, ok, the producers of this film asked for advisers from the Navajo Nation so they wouldn't get shit wrong and then they got mad when the advisers told them that they got shit wrong. Awesome. That's like the makers of Spongebob Squarepants inviting marine biologists to the set and then going ape-shit when someone suggests that crabs might not father sperm whales and covet bags of money. Who the hell goes to an Adam Sandler movie for accuracy?  The most valuable lesson to be learned from this movie in particular is in finance: if a film is slated for a big screen summer release in 2014 and now it's getting made for a Netflix only release at an undetermined time,  some one, at some point, dropped the goddamned ball. The notable thing happened later, when Netflix released a statement concerning this whole debaucle: 

 

Well, no, actually, several members of the diverse cast came forward with deep cultural and emotional concerns, and the producers of the film suggested they smoke-em some cock and not let the sweat-lodge door hit them in the ass when they left, but whatever. There's not even half an apology in that statement; it's just random, tired words put together by a person who was probably wearing underwear constructed from Hulu's tears and black Amex cards when they wrote it. He or she might as well have responded with a statement that was just a block of text cut and pasted A Weekend at Bernie's 2's Wikipedia and then REST IN PEACE ROBERT URICH again and again until they ran out of room.

That same day, Avengers 2: Age of Ultron actors Jeremy Renner and Chris Evans, interviewed in support of the film, were questioned (by a woman) about female character Black Widow and how she seemed to work alongside different male avengers in different Marvel films. Renner responded by calling Black Widow "a whore," "a slut," and, "a trick." Evans laughed uproariously at this, clapped, and agreed that she was "a complete whole." Renner ended this cavalcade of class by dismissively reminding everyone that Black Widow has a fake leg. So, one last slap in the ass to you, disabled people. Don't rest too easy, ok?

Evans' PR person reacted quickly with a short, acceptable apology. Renner, on the other hand, farted out a statement that reeked of back-washed Kahlua and cigars lit with hundred dollar bills:

Man, and I just thought he was being an asshole. I'll have to learn not to judge people by their words and actions from now on. And this half-assed explanation about being tired is 100% in my book, because it's not like he's out at all hours partying and drinking. I mean, what a homebody- have you seen the awesome Holly Hobby needlepoint he sells on Etsy? And, tedious, sure. He's staying at Days Inn during the junket, right? In that room right next to the ice machine? And I've heard Robert Downey Jr. is up to all hours of the night kicking the soda machine, trying to dislodge that one last Mr. Pibb that's caught. HE CAN SEE IT THROUGH THE GLASS, IT'S RIGHT THERE. How it possesses him! What.....no? They're all on Disney's Dime....staying in the finest....best of everything....oh, ok. I must've been thinking of every other person on the planet who isn't playing an Avenger.

The real star here is the Un-pology, the thing people give you when they know they have to say something and they resent the hell out of it. It generally begins with something like "I'm sorry such and such offended you..." which can be easily translated as, "Sorry you're such a sad-ass who wants to ruin our fun," or, in the case of Netflix, can just be a corporation shruggingly trying to convince us all, in the absence of any true evidence, that an Adam Sandler movie is a comedy. In both cases, the guilty parties get away with it because we're going to consume their products regardless of what they say or do. What, are you going to cancel Netflix? I'm not. There are like five kids in my house who would hunt me for sport if I even threatened to change the wi-fi password- and I am not a fast runner, you guys. Everybody is going to see Avengers 2. Yes, so they can bitch and moan about how it's inferior to the first one and how badly it did whatever to their childhoods, but they're still going to see it, more than once in many cases, so what can any of us really say?

Well, I can say, tinged with hypocrisy, that it sucks to hire people to help you and then insult them so personally, and I can say that it sucks for millions of kids around the world to see Hawkeye and Captain America call the woman who fights alongside them a whore, a trick and a slut. For those of us who were old enough to be offended by the latter, the price is not much- maybe irritation and the presence of a few self-important, long-winded blogs (ahem,) but to the child, the teen, the young person who reads comic books and sees these movies as a means of nurturing some sadness, some feeling of isolation, this lesson is a powerful one.

No filter, you know, obviously.

I very rarely get spots, not because I'm old, which I am, but because I bombed the shit out of my body with two cycles of Accutane in my twenties. There were potential side effects- whatever, whatever- I didn't care, I just wanted clear skin. I don't think I even I had bad skin until I was about 15 or so, and I started to get some gnarly black heads across the bridge of my nose. I guess it was bad...maybe? Honestly, I didn't know it was so bad until my father made a point to explain to me how bad it was. So, I got kind of a complex about it for a while. Please don't worry, I'm not going to go on and on. My dad's kind of a prick, whatever, and now my mom's dead and he's just sort of there in his home, simmering in his awfulness. I'm not mad at him; I have come to terms with all the old stuff. I'm from California; we tend to get that shit out of the way early.


So, anyway, I got a spot this week. Stress, maybe? I have a book (available for pre-order!) coming out in October. I'm appearing at BookCon next month. I have this site, a YouTube thing I'm doing, I'm writing a trilogy, and then the whole husband and kids thing. Very hard on the skin, generally. I dug through my products and I was low on camouflage. Any excuse to use them CVS ExtraBucks, yo. 

I got this stuff, Neutrogena SkinClearing Blemish Concealer. It was ok. It has a strange kind of orangey color, all of the tints do for some reason- you can actually see it in the tube above. It has a cool, flocked tip, though, and it treats the blemish with salicylic acid. It covered pretty well (see below.)

Better, right? It's good, but it wasn't may fave. That would be Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Eraser Darkspot Concealer and Treatment. 




Damn, that was a lot of words. As you might be able to ascertain from that explosive diarrhea of a product name, it's meant for dark spots, not pimples, but the lighter color really brought the discoloration of the spot up to my natural skin-tone, and it also works well for under eye circles and darkish shadows to the sides of the nose. It also works gangbusters for a bruise left for infinity after a pimple. Results below:
   

See? Basically invisible. So, there's that. Both cover up jobs took significantly less than five minutes; I dabbed directly on the spot and blended with a clean ring finger, making sure to do this near a window for natural light. When covering a big spot, a job that look awesome in your bathroom will look like a face-full of Spackle as soon as you leave the house. Will I take the three minutes to cover a zit before running off to Market Basket for coffee creamer? Yeah, probably not. But I could. It's a free country.

Sorry, guys, that you had to look up my nose as much as you did. You're the REAL heroes. 

Well, we all know the story at this point, singer Michael Buble and his wife, Luisana, an actress and underwear model, were at a Chi-Chi's, or something, and they saw a girl of indeterminate age standing at the counter wearing little shorts and sporting a really impressive waist-to-hip, and they (LUISANA. IT WAS LUISANA WHO TOOK THE PICTURE.....GOD!) decided to covertly take the girl's picture while Buble (WHO DID NOT TAKE THE PICTURE, OK?) stood smirking in the foreground and post the mess on Instagram with the caption "There was something about this picture Lu took that seemed worthy of Instagram," and the hashtags "#myhumps #babygotback #hungryshorts #beautifulbum"

Gross, right? Oh, and let's take a minute to appreciate him preemptively hoisting this shit-storm on his wife. I mean, we know someone else took it, unless his ass brought a goddamn tripod to IHOP or he and the ghost of Benny Hill decided to go out trolling together for ass-pic opportunities.  It's odd for a person to mention who took a picture of themselves in such a casual way unless they need to cover their ass in some significant way....it's like when Robin Thicke got sued by the estate of Marvin Gaye because Thicke's Blurred Lines was too similar to Gaye's Got to Give it Up, and Thicke was all, LOL, I was high, Pharrell wrote it; then Thicke, as though to prove his case without a shadow of a doubt, released his horrible, self-penned album, Paula.  I, myself, do not usually attribute random pictures of myself and my family to  "some guy feeding squirrels in the park." Perhaps I have been in error. Also, to play devil's advocate, perhaps Luisana is hoping to win a prestigious Audubon Award for her photo journal "Great Asses of the Wild," and she was really hurting for that credit. If there's no credence to either of those suggestions, one certainly might speculate that a small part of Buble's mind recognized the eyeing, photographing and posting of this young woman's ass as questionable, and coughed up, in a sad, little thought bubble, "Hey, Michael.....?"

So, anyway, a few people got a bug in their butts about it, and Buble released this statement:

Ok, here we go:

"Anybody who knows me would never misinterpret the message of the photo my wife took in Miami that seems to have caused unexpected rage by some people."


We don't know you, Michael. That's the point. And, you know, it's like I've always said, the worst kind of rage is unexpected rage. How terrible for you. Did you receive death threats? Did people threaten to rape you? Was your personal address posted on the internet so that people might be able to threaten you and your family? No? Oh, good. I've heard that happens sometimes. 

"...I realize that a photo that was meant to be complimentary and lighthearted has turned into a questionable issue."


Haha, I see you, Michael. It was turned into a questionable issue. By...? Hmmm, I don't know. According to the trolls it was probably the feminists, who hate men and are also obese, and lesbian. And ugly. And need sex to be administered to them for various lengths and degrees of aggression so that they can learn to take a joke and/or compliment. For the record, even in the best case scenario, I don't think it does anyone any good to feel offended by something and then to immediately assume it was harmless. Sure, maybe the first reaction also shouldn't be anger, but curiosity. Why did the potential offender's mind settle where it did, and why did the words or actions happen to pass the old sniff-test so easily? These are questions we should all ask and be asking ourselves.

"It hurts me deeply that anyone would think that I would disrespect women or be insulting to any human being."

Ok, this isn't really about your feelings right now, but that's noted.

"I regret that there are people out there who found the photo offensive." 


Oh, sure. Anyone over five years old understands that- the un-apology. *I'm very sorry you chose to take this that way, and I feel sorry for you. I hope you feel better later.*

"Women are to be celebrated, loved, respected, honored and revered. I’ve spent my life believing that and will continue to do so."


Ok, let's talk about this. I want to start by saying, very clearly, that there is a difference between liking vagina and liking women. There's a difference between wanting vagina and respecting women. There's a difference between saying a thing you think women want to hear and actually treating women like human beings. My vagina and ovaries....you know, I shouldn't be revered for those. Reading the quote above, I had this awesome mental picture of, like, just a labia with a fine robe and scepter, wearing a crown, out for a dignified walk on its royal grounds, nodding to the peasants. You can go ahead put a woman on a pedestal because you were raised hearing that you should, but it isn't real. You can "respect" someone to the point where they have no humanity, and that's a real problem.

Dude, I can be an asshole. Did you see me stick it to Robin Thicke up there, for Christ's sake? What did Robin Thicke ever do to me? And his dad, Alan Thicke, gave us all so many years of laughter and tears! He wrote the theme songs for both Diff'rent Strokes AND The Facts of Life! Who else would have told us the hard, cold truths of the world, that it "don't move to the beat of just one drum," and what you have after you take The Good and combine it with The Bad? Once I refused to share a cab with a man and woman in the pouring rain because I didn't want to have to make small talk. Sometimes I'm such a douche bag, man, and you know who else is? Everyone. All of the people. We all suck and we're all beautiful and we're all completely capable of the nine hundred zillion points in between. Right? I have this theory that a huge reason for the frustration men have with woman is the fact that just years of princess propaganda has rendered men completely unable to identify with women as people. No woman- no person- can live up to some sterling, invisible grocery list of qualities, such as not having body hair and not farting, among others. Respect me because I'm a human. Love, honor and revere me when I have earned it.

So, look, that's that. The deed has been done and questioned and (to an extent) answered for, and we're on to the next. You might ask why this particular situation was so personal to me, and, honestly, I don't even know. There was a certain banal injustice there that woke my inner Rambo, the one that generally just crouches in the deep brush of the forest in its face paint and simmers, and elbowed it into action. It didn't want to fight, you know? I didn't want to fight, either, but then Brian Dennehy kept harassing me because of my long hair. I was a veteran! He drew first blood, man. HE drew first blood.  

So, ok....I guess Michael Buble put up this photo on his Instagram (while eating at an effing Friendly's, or something,) with the caption:

Lu, one would assume, is Buble's wife and the mother of his son, actress Luisana Lopilato, who, for the record, looks like this:

Anyway, I guess these two lovebirds were waiting for their food at Chipotle, or wherever, and they noticed a young woman with a big ass at the cashier. Hilarious, am I right? THAT'S WHERE HER DOODY COMES FROM AND IT CAN BE USED FOR SEX AND STUFF. Mr. Buble and his wife then assumed that it would be a good idea to photograph this woman from the back without her consent as Buble himself stood in the foreground, arms crossed, smirking at the camera. Ok, I don't need to mention that this is the funniest thing that has ever happened. You understand that intrinsically because we are all human and connected by the basic, fragile element of humor. So, sorry, Louis C.K. Pack your shit, Wanda Sykes. Haunt somewhere else, George Carlin, because there's a new grand ruler of comedy in town, and his name is Mr. Michael Buble.

Ok, That was bullshit. I'm done discussing Buble and his intentions, because when he decided to post the above image (of he and the girl at The Sizzler, not the one of his hot wife) to the world his intentions became irrelevant, and what I have to say to him has been said better, for all of eternity, by Ice Cube in the movie Friday: 

So, we'll leave it at that.

The interesting thing, to me, was the response. I glanced at the comments- WHICH YOU SHOULD NEVER EVER EVER DO EVER unless you want to a.) start drinking, b.) take a Silkwood shower, or, c.) volunteer to man an experimental rocket-ship headed straight for the sun. But I did, fine. And what I found was that, to many people, the issue was not bad behavior, but feminism. One guy, whom I assume was a guy, but it doesn't even matter, wrote something like, oh, not everything is so offensive, this is why I will never support modern feminism.

Hmm. OK, let's come back to that; first let's unpack the original image: 

Is this sexist? I think that's a grey area. Would he have posted this picture and posed this way if a young man with a big ass were at the counter? Maybe. There was that situation a few weeks ago in which an obese gentleman was filmed and mocked widely while dancing frenetically, and the Internets came roaring to his defense and threw him a big party, or something (I don't know, I'm not the Huffington Post, Google it.) The fact that it is a woman and Buble is hetrosexual man, in that pose, making that face, makes it feel more sexist to me personally, combined with the hashtags beautifulbum, babygotback, etc. It is not difficult for me, as a woman who developed early (like, 11) to see myself in that young woman at the counter, quietly minding my own business, being mocked and judged by attractive, popular people. Perhaps the recent onslaught of celebrities such as Nikki Minaj and Iggy Azalea singing the praises of their own posteriors suggests that every woman is so willing to submit to such public consumption. That is not a dig- these are grown women who've made a choice concerning the way they'd like to be seen by and marketed to the public.  They are not standing passively at the counter of an Arby's. 

To further explain the photo above, I'll use a word that I've found to be massively disliked and misunderstood, especially on the Internet, triggering. It triggers pain in me, and in other people, from past experiences- to which one might say, well, how is that my problem? Which is a lot like Chief Marco Pierre White making fellow Chef Gordon Ramsey cry and then saying, "I didn't make him cry. He chose to cry." You don't have to understand why or how a thing is triggering to know that it is triggering. You can listen to a person, you can believe them, and you can do so without countering with other, unrelated situations in which you yourself felt wronged, and found a way to "get over it." It doesn't have to be a game of Who's Suffered the Most. People can be kind to other people. There's time for every story to be heard, hopefully not as a weapon to negate the experiences of others.

Other responses to the above photo, from both men and woman, include, She wore that; She chose to leave the house with her ass hanging out so she can't get mad if people look, and, It was a compliment; she should feel flattered. Well. I mean...yes, she wore the outfit, and yes, people look at a lot of things. I don't think looking is really the issue, at this point. Is it really so acceptable to take pictures of unsuspecting people with intent to mock them on a global scale just because we have the technology to do so? And, if you can swing with assuming that a woman dressed a certain way for a specific kind of attention, where does that end? She dressed that way because she wanted men to look at her body. She likes men looking at her body. She wanted me to look at her body. She likes me. Did you see that, how small a journey that was? I did. Maybe the young woman at the counter did want attention, or maybe she just got up and put on a pair of shorts. It's not really our place to speculate.

By the way, how old is that girl, I wonder. 17? 23? 37? Is a child being mocked? Is a child being concurrently mocked and sexualized by a famous millionaire? It's interesting that Buble would make it a point to mention his wife took the picture in question, as though such a detail makes this whole thing less....everything. But, again, his intention is not the issue. If the young woman standing at the counter contacted the media and explained that it was all in good fun and that she was not offended by the situation, that would also not be the issue. At this point the image has been metabolized differently by everyone and has become metaphorical. 

Which brings me back to this comment: I will never support modern feminism. Well, good, because it doesn't exist. Coincidentally, I will never support Big Foot. Unless I was in the can when a cyborg Gloria Steinem descended on her jet-pack to explain the new tenets of feminism, which included not finding menstruation jokes funny and giving guys a hard time when they want to look at strippers, feminism remains exactly what it has always been: "the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men." So, look, basically it's like this: if you disagree with anything that I've said here, or that any woman such as myself has ever said, now and forever, online or IRL, about triggers or sexism, etc., you don't necessarily disagree with FEMINISM, you might just disagree about one thing with one FEMINIST.

Easy, right? We can probably be buddies, right? Sure, we can. By the way, this was Buble's response to the controversy:

Well, there you go everyone! Nothing to see here. Also, in case you weren't listening, his wife really took that photo. He very much regrets that any of us found it offensive, which, as you know, is the hallmark of a true apology: being sorry that someone wrong took the funny thing you did in the wrong way. It was a long few hours, you guys, but, finally, I think we can all find peace, and walk away from this situation as better, more loving people. Hope you enjoyed your lunch at Checkers, Michael! 

I guess I should start by mentioning that I've never had any beef with you.  All of my kids have always enjoyed your programming, especially Caillou and The Chica Show. Your channel is actually on our TV quite a bit as background noise whenever we are puttering around and getting ready for our day; in the evening, The Goodnight Show with Nina and Star gets the babies mellow and ready for sleep. I'm grateful for that. Thank you.

A couple of days ago, I noticed you promoting Mom is Here, a challenge of sorts, a giveaway that encourages mothers to take the filters off their phones for thirty days and upload pictures of themselves and their children to your website and to Instagram with the tags #momishere and #nofilters30. 

Ummmmm.....couple of things. Well. Lets start with a quote from the webpage:

I'm not terribly sure if this is an attempt at creating better moms or more self-assured women, but, Sprout, it seems to somehow fail at both.  Now, look, I don't have a cell phone; I don't know no never mind about these new-fangled "filters" the kids today seem to enjoy so much. After reading about this contest, though, I checked my tablet and, yes, the camera of which has three or four filters in varying shades of vague sepia, and taking a picture of myself while using one did nothing really to negate the fact that I was, in fact there, present, albeit in kind of a thoughtful, old-timey Wild West Madame sort of way. Which brings me to this: What is it about using a filter, that makes one not "here?" Does a soft focus make a more negligent mom, and, conversely, does admitting you have dark spots and a double chin somehow make you a superior one? Because, listen, if that's the case, I'm your winner. I'll take your $2500 spa package. Although, by your logic, wouldn't that level of self preservation and care for my appearance make me kind of a fraud?

Now, Sprout- and please forgive me for this tone, because I know that you must have meant well with this thing, of course, because we all mean well to some extent- I'm not certain when filters were introduced to the public but I'm guessing, you know, they were meant to soften and blur, sometimes in an artistic way, sometimes because it gives the features a more pleasing appearance. This is still "real." A mom with a child on her lap taking a selfie with a filter is real; feels real love; is a human being. I mean....there's generations and generations of maternal guilt and self loathing that you've tapped into here- again, not your fault, but you should understand the history. This shit is loaded, man. 

A small story: after I gave birth to my daughter, now six, I had just been transferred to a room, and, having had an epidural, my legs were still numb and I was unable to walk. Also, the doctor had performed an episiotomy, so at that moment, and for several days, I could not bear down without an excruciating amount of pain. My nurse walked in and looked past my groggy exhaustion to a pile of library books resting on the nightstand beside me. She picked one up, examined it with something like distaste, and said, "Oh, you have time to read?" I'd just become a mother. My insides were, for all intents and purposes, heading outside, and it was already unacceptable for me to have a goddamn minute to myself.

Do you see that, Sprout? Can you understand that? As mothers we undergo a massive amount of scrutiny from outside, from inside, from one another, and this is fraught with an endless dichotomy. There is a general understanding that the role of motherhood is all-encompassing, and woe to the poor fool who wants to be attractive, who needs a few hours to herself, who sees herself as a sexual being when sex is not just a means of release for her mate, or a bartering tool when she craves some trip or shiny thing. You, your channel, this challenge, have turned clumsily around and bumped your ass on everything wrong with the common perception of motherhood.  

30 days, no filter. You....you must assume that the child is with their mother every minute of the day. At the office. At the grocery store. In the bathroom, in front of the mirror. And, what, really, can be proven by any of this? As a woman far more clever than I pointed out earlier today, why does being present, being here, have the slightest thing to do with talking a selfie? A millisecond captured, without filter, insinuating that the rest of the day has been as magical. And, don't think I didn't catch the mild shade at celebrities, Sprout. We really like to shame others sometimes, I think, others who enjoy the luxury of things such as lots of money, lots of sleep, nice things and extra help. By your logic, what kind of mom is Kim Kardashian, say? With her beautiful hair and complexion, and her clothes bereft of baby vomit. Does she even know her own child, so distracted by her filters and Photoshop and make up? Well, how dare you. How dare any of us.

In closing, I guess I'd suggest that you reconsider whatever filter-less "real beauty" you covet, and that certainly, despite this-

that you accept the possibility that step and foster moms might also be deemed worthy of it. A mother, as anyone, should be encouraged to care for herself in the ways that make her feel valued. Perhaps she reads a book, or gives herself time for a bath. Maybe she buys a lipstick. Maybe she joins a gym. Maybe she takes a class, or a walk. Maybe she takes a cute picture of herself with or without a filter. Maybe she takes a nap. Maybe her children learn that loving someone does not include martyring oneself. Maybe this is a good thing. (Spoiler alert: It's a good thing.)

Thanks,
Nadine Darling

Today, on the Facebook, a friend of mine was posting about makeup and selfies, and that there had to be an inevitable let-down when finally seeing a partner without their face-full o' Maybelline. He suggested it might be better for all involved if both parties came to the table barefaced, just as themselves. This got me thinking about the natural look, and how many GD products it actually takes to achieve that.

1. Moisturizer, or, in my case, face oil: I use L'oreal Age Perfect Glow Renewal. Four drops on a clean face looks glow-y, not greasy, and sets the canvas for the rest of your face. I love the smell, too. It's kind of a fresh hippie calming sort of experience, like a little moment of clarity. 

2. Sunscreen- You know, obvs. I don't really have to go over this with you. I use La Roche-Posay Anthelios 50. It's super light and water resistant for 40 minutes. It has a nice kind of retro Coppertone scent and a very nice, milky texture. Also comes in a tinted version for you lazy-asses.

3. Concealer- Under the eyes, down the nose, inside corners of the eyes, under the brows as a highlighter, and wherever there's a spot or discoloration. Right now I like Maybelline Instant Age Rewind Dark Circle Eraser, but for all my concealing needs. Just dab on with the flocked applicator and blend with a clean ring finger. The ring finger is your weakest finger and applies the least amount of pressure, so it's less likely to smudge the makeup off the spot where you want it. Science is magic!

4. God, I'm so tired, already. How many more of these are there? Fine. Curl your damn lashes. Just do it; it makes a difference. And Mascara. Right now I'm using Covergirl Full Lash Bloom. 




So, basically, curl, hold for like twenty seconds, coat of mascara and then curl again. And, if you're feeling adventurous, use a bit of liner under the lower lash line. I'm really shitty at eyeliner, so I just do a terrible job and everyone thinks I'm making a statement. Because that's how I'd do it if I had a statement to make, with eyeliner. Grab whatever, preferably a not-black color if you really want to stay "natural." I like Rimmel Soft Kohl Kajal eye liner in Sable Brown. 


5. Mouth. Line and fill in your lips with Wet and Wild lipliner in Brandywine 666. Cover in Cherry Chapstick. Done. You're makeup free. You woke up like this.

The moral of this and every story is: do whatever the hell you want. But, be warned- if you tell someone you like the no-makeup look, one morning in the not too distant future they may be standing next to you in line at Market Basket in pajama pants and flip flops, hair back in a Scrunchie, with an industrial sized keg of Cheez Ballz under one arm. Looking beautiful, of course.

I'll tell you a secret that you don't even want to know: my feet are pretty gross. Well, they WERE pretty gross; now, they're super awesome. Now, they're as good as they were in high school. The heels are smooth with nary a crack; the soles are pink; the nails are painted and cut straight across. Why? What is the reason for this transformation? My Pedi Perfect.

Ok, but before....I actually wish I had done a before and after, because that's how bad they were. This was a shit winter in New England, and nothing suffered worse than my feet- yes, without hyperbole. I know ppl lost their homes and lives, but, sweet Jesus, my feet. They hurt constantly. They had cracks in the heels so bad and deep you could fit the edge of a coin in like halfway. And not a dime or a penny, mind you, like a quarter. My cracks split and left bloody chicken tracks everywhere I went. And, like, that pad right under your pinkie toe? When I walked on tile or linoleum I sounded like that raptor chasing those poor kids through the kitchen in Jurassic Park. And I'd heard ppl going on and on about the Pedi Perfect, but, look, I was skeptical. Remember that piece of shit Pedi Egg, that was basically a cheese grater for feet and then you had to empty all the dead foot flakes out on your carpet? I was a victim of that thing- where's my parade? Also, not for nothing, my cheap ass actually bought the Pedi Egg brokedown version of the Pedi Perfect because it's like twenty bucks less-- big mistake. No, no. There is no comparison. Break down and spend the forty bucks. If you get it at B.J.s like I did, you get three extra rollers. Also it comes with batteries (I SEE YOU, PEDI EGG; Hell is hot.) so it's ready to go and you don't have to run around pulling shit out of your stepson's XBox controller or your own, ahem, personal massager.

So, it's like this: Clean your dirty feet (I hope, a given), turn the silver ring in the middle of the Pedi Perfect and gently guide the spinning roller over your nast tootsies. Carefully- don't try to be a hero- let the roller do the work, and be mindful of how your feet are feeling at any given time. I'm assuming that your session won't take as long as my first one, in which it took me like a half hour to strike living tissue, did.  Apply a nice thick lotion (I use the corresponding Amope Pedi Perfect lotion, because I can be sold any product, at any price),  slip on some socks, get into bed and call it a night. Then, the next day, get up and paint them toes, Martha, 'cause it's time to buy some flip-flops at CVS and get you a fancy drink. I like Rekha by Zoya. As the polish, I mean, not to drink. That shit would kill ya. 

One thing that everyone knows about me is that I'm not a big fan of drugstore makeup. Correction: ABSOLUTELY NO ONE KNOWS THAT ABOUT ME OR CARES. There, fixed it. I generally use Bare Minerals, because, having been pregnant for the last nine million years, I'm up a lot watching infomercials. It's all skincare and enchanted melons and Dump Cakes- the kind of stuff that can make you feel good and bad about yourself at the same time. And, you know, it's not like I should be writing, or anything. I kind of defy anyone to watch thirty minutes of Bare Minerals and not buy the shit. It can't be done. The person who directed that spot could make a full length movie about Bare Minerals and win every single Oscar every single year.

Still, I'm a big fan of trying new things, including becoming an alcoholic, Indian food, and a few things I can't really talk about outside of my marriage. I picked up this foundation yesterday after Easter Chinese food at Mikado with Ken and the kids. I may or may not have had a few glasses of Riesling. Or a few more. In any case, I was drawn to this product because of the bright pink applicator thingy, which, once out of the packaging, looks a bit like a single, rubbery nipple-cover, as though Cinderella were a stripper who had to be finished performing at a royal bachelor party by midnight and just dropped her shit on the palace steps. (Note to self: WRITE THIS STORY, THEN SUBMIT TO ELLEN PARKER AT FrIGG.)

So...Oh, ok...I guess this product is meant for women with fine facial hair. Well! I guess that's why you read the packaging before spending 12 bucks at CVS! I myself do not have fine facial hair, but apparently the foundation and nipple-looking applicator also diminish flaws, of which I have a few. Ok, maybe just a couple. Anyway, the foundation offers nice coverage, features no smell, and the nippley applicator goes on very smoothly with a less greasy finish than you might get using your own fingers. The finish is glowy, not matte, so maybe not the best choice for summer, but you should be able to get away with it for a couple more months.. So, try it out, why not? Or don't, I'm not your mother.

Ah, Sunday, a day for the lazy to laze and the workers to complain about working. A day for me, personally, to ruminate about the care and condition of our largest organ (LOL, organ) the skin. Be it dry or moist, spotty or oily, normal or abnormal, skin is the thing we all see first, and judge others upon, harshly. Oh, you know you do, you heartless dick. You don't? Yeah, I guess I don't care that much, either. But we all want our shit to be tight, right? Right. Enter Garnier Clean+Nourishing Cleansing Oil.



Yeah, I was very afraid of oil, no lies, as I spent many years of my life as an oily, oily person. As a person so oily, I could grease a cookie sheet with my face, if I so desired. This never came up, of course, but the option was there. I use coconut oil, you know, I'm not a psycho.

A small story. For my 40th birthday, my dear friend Rachel took me to a beloved local Mexican place called Acapulcos. As an actual Mexican (Filipino) person, I should not love this place the way I do. Everything about it panders to the American sensibility of what a Mexican restaurant should be: flour tortillas instead of corn, fried ice cream, and waitstaff who call you "Amigo." I'm there maybe three times a week. Ok, so. Three weeks before my birthday, I bought this cleanser at CVS for about seven bucks, probably less, and I start using it a couple times a day. And here I am at my birthday, laughing it up with my 25 year old friend, and the waiter, whom I've seen probably more than any aunt or uncle or cousin in my entire life, ASKS ME FOR MY EFFING I.D. I thought that he was joking. He was not joking. Later, my friend Rachel says, "It's not that he didn't think you were forty; he didn't think you were twenty one." 

That, my friend, is the power of this cleanser.

I use it twice a day with my Clarisonic Mia brush, but a good old wash cloth works just as well. You take one pump of the oil and rub it between your hands and then onto your face and neck for thirty seconds or more and then add a little water until it emulsifies and turns white. I do not rinse very well, and make sure to leave a lot of product on my skin, and then just pat dry with a towel. Believe me when I tell you that this cleanser has made my skin velvety smooth and clear and has not resulted in one pimple, whitehead or blackhead. Believe me also when I say that I have used some of the most luxurious and expensive cleansers out there, both over the counter and by prescription and this little seven dollar miracle trumps them all. Get a bottle now, and thank me later, kids. 

I set out to do a thing here, with this blog: to talk about a book I’m reading and a beauty product that I’m using concurrently. Sometimes they are alike. Sometimes they are not. Sometimes I will have more to say about the book, and vice versa. Sometimes, I guess, one might get lost. In this case, it is the product that will be lost.

Let’s talk about Sarah Blake’s Mr. West. Well, first, let’s talk about Sarah Blake. A small story- I am publishing a book in October, pretend you know all about it. I was chatting to my Agent (another Sarah) and my editor (an Allyson,) about whom we might ask to blurb my book, and it was a giddy, candy shop of a conversation. After hearing many names and throwing out many outrageous names of my own, I said, half-joking, “Can we get Kanye West?” No one treated it as a joke. My agent and editor began to posit how such a thing might happen. Did so and so know a particular doorman?! Did such and such have a book club with whomever who might possibly pass someone a cake with a manuscript ensconced inside?!!  Someone mentioned Blake’s book, and the troubles she’d had getting clearance for her quotes.

Well. Blake’s book came out. Quite by accident, I noticed a Facebook friend congratulating her, and I, recalling the conversation with my agent and editor, extended a friend request of my own. Lovely woman. Very positive and guileless. Will stand up for what she believes in.  I like her.  I ordered the book and received it, and I read it. I went back into the blurb conversation with my agent and editor asking to strike Kanye from the list. I suggested, actually, that we ask Sarah Blake for a blurb, instead.

I don’t really even know where to begin. The poems are love, pure love. This is the sort of book I would like to have written about my husband; this contains the research, the minutiae, that one would put into a book about the person they admired most it in the world. It is Blake’s gift to Kanye, but we benefit, as well. One of her own blurbers, Kenneth Goldsmith, writes that she is “single-handedly and elegantly bringing poetry into the present moment,” and I would agree with this- her poems present themselves as thoughts that are cohesive as short stories, even the most lyrical of image is cemented into place by the verses before it, with not a word wasted.

In Mr. West, we learn immediately that Blake is pregnant, married and that she understands loss in a way that makes her very keen to the life and times of Kanye West on the brink of his super-stardom. There is an alignment between author and artist; they are losing people, they are filled with joy, they are on the precipice of their new identities. She is already enveloped in her love of Kanye, a connection so deep it sometimes feels odd even to her. She discusses his life- the girls he dates, his car accident, the fracas after he called out President Bush at a telethon during Katrina- and places it beside her own in a way that is moving and sometimes hilariously funny. In the poem Adventures, she writes:

Kanye had said, in that NBC clip, “I’ve even

been shopping before

even giving a donation, so now I’m calling

my business manager

right now to see what’s-what is the biggest

amount I can give”

 

What is the biggest amount so that how

Much remains?

 

I can’t look up something like that.

 

A number I can’t imagine.

 

After the earthquake in Haiti, Noah and I

Donated $20 at Wegman’s

And our cashier told us it was the largest

Donation all day.


How can you not love that? That magic. How are you immune?


Blake touches on the death of Kanye’s mother with deft kindness.

And my mind asks if these are not the fingers that move freely in a dream and play some kind of music for you, she writes about a tree branch in the beautiful Dear Kanye, or run along the top of your head in the manner of one who loves you. Are they not the fingers that begin to resemble your mother’s?

There is no irony in this collection; it is sincere. So sincere. So sincere that if this book were a pumpkin patch, Linus would be sitting in it waiting for the Great Pumpkin to appear. She collects the media refuse and makes a scrapbook of sorts, a baby book. It does not surprise me that Blake herself, in the comments sections of various articles about her, has already become an odd artifact of Kanye’s life, or, rather to the point, of people’s frustration with him. They dislike his bravado and they mock her acceptance- they will judge the both of them without reading this book, without understanding. I feel very sorry for them.

Oh, the nail polish is gold. I selected it with this book for the gold Sharpie with which the author signs her books. It’s OPI, and called Oy, Another Polish Joke, which I find pretty stupid, even for the name of a nail polish. It’s quite festive, though, and goes on smoothly, dries quickly. I did two coats and topped it off with Sally Hansen Mega Shine Top Coat, which went for about seven bucks at CVS. The polish itself was also less than eight bucks and came from Marshall’s as part of a set with a little makeup bag and another polish, a kind of shimmery rust called I Sing in the Coppera.