#trying and FAILING to de-frizz

[switch]

this thing tripped my “that looks like it might be something” radar. i was kinda right? apparently she’s a 1994 scented “baggie friend” from cititoy. she actually still has some of her scent! it’s not super strong but it’s definitely that distinct artificial berry you get in a lot of scented toys. there’s not a lot of information about these things online, but they’re quite cute designs. unfortunately, her hair is not the best quality, it’s very dry and doesn’t hold moisture. her hat also can’t be non-destructively removed, which didn’t help with trying to do a basic de-frizz.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators Ch 4: Man vs. Wild

It rains. You disappoint your ancestors and come to a few conclusions.

On AO3

A sound startles you out of your miserable doze. Mumu stands before you in a fuzzy, purple robe—more classical sculpture, less fluffy bath accessory. He looks concerned.

You try not to shiver.

You fail miserably.

He mutters something, brow pinched in what you hope is worry. He takes your sodden bedding from you. The downpour woke you from a dead sleep. Fancy Pants was nowhere to be seen, and neither Goth Girl nor Mumu roused themselves. So you crafted the only shelter you could, and huddled beneath your sleeping bag.

It soaked through within an hour. You soaked through in half that time.

Your limbs are stiff. Muscles scream and bones creak as Mumu helps you up. His hands are so warm against yours. He guides you, staggering, over to where the fire went out. He says more echoing words.

Nothing happens.

He mutters what you’re sure are swears, and tries again.

Nothing happens, again.

You drip miserably. You’re pretty sure some great, great grandmother is clucking her tongue at your complete lack of outdoorsy skills.

He gestures to the soggy pile of ash and stomps over to his tent. Returns with what must be a spare mumu.

The thing is, it’s awfully close to a dress. Dresses are pretty and there’s nothing wrong with anyone wanting to wear them. You’ve even eyeballed a few, wishing. But actually on you?

This garment seems clean, should fit even your thicker frame. But when you picture yourself in it, the feel of loose fabric on your bare legs beneath it, the vulnerability, you can’t stop the shudder. Yes, you were one hundred percent naked on the ship. That’s different, your brain insists. The feel of it is completely different. The context of it is completely different.

“No, sorry,” you say. You hope the smile and the shake of your head will translate to polite refusal.

He chatters—you can guess some form of, “this is how you catch hypothermia, dolt”—but. You can’t. There’s only a few things these days that you just Can’t, and this is one of them.

“I’m good.” You hold up a hand in what you hope is a universal “stop”.

He stares at you like a disapproving PTA board member. You keep smiling. Playing dumb, playing innocent. You can’t understand each other, after all. He can chalk this whole thing up to bad communication. No one’s fault, couldn’t be helped.

He sighs and—oh hey! Here comes Fancy Pants strolling into camp! What fantastic timing.

***

The group has an argument. Or a kerfluffle, at least. And it’s not over your soggy self, you think. (You hope.) You stand around, trying to keep yourself moving, as everyone (Goth Girl and Mumu) pack their things away and snipe at each other. As you watch, Goth Girl crams a tent pole into her bag and that absolutely should not fit.

Magic. It has to be. Squidward aliens, hell, and magic bags.

You can’t collapse into the mud. You know it’s a stupid thing you do, what you’ve been told is a “maladaptive coping mechanism” to stress. You scrub your face again—at least the rain washed off the eau de seaweed. Maybe your hair won’t frizz. You run your hand over your elbows and frown. Damn things are going to turn to cheese graters if you can’t find some kind of lotion or something.

There’s a better “response to stress.” Focus on little things you can actually do. This entire situation is so huge and monstrous, no one—not even someone without your own brand of bullshit—could possibly face it without fainting like a tiny goat. So you’re going to do what you’ve been trained: smash it into smaller pieces.

You need to warm up. You have no clothes and no source of heat, so you need to move. The clouds have dispersed and the sunlight shines down all warm and golden. If you can get everyone walking, you might be able to keep your internal temperature up enough to dry out.

Water and food.

Find help??

Three is still too big. You shove that aside.

Mumu is rubbing the gap between his eyebrows when you reach him. Goth Girl is saying something with a tone you recognize: voice soft, but with a set to her jaw that means, “I’m going to do what I want regardless of what you say.” Fancy Pants is cutting in now and then with what you can only assume is bitching. So these three are your survival buddies. Neat.

“Hey,” you say. It takes another attempt before Mumu sighs and glances to you.

God, you need to learn the language. Single words, at least.

You mime lifting something to your mouth and chewing (they aren’t toddlers, you shouldn’t go “Mmmm, nummy” with it, but damn if that image doesn’t pop into your head). You point to all of them, to you, and lift your eyebrows expectantly.

Goth Girl’s lips go thin. She looks to Mumu. She’d shared her crackers last night, so maybe she’s suggesting it’s his turn to donate?

He apparently agrees. Reaches into his bag and pulls out a few apples and a loaf of slightly stale bread. Only Fancy Pants declines, all breezy and unconcerned. Fancy man, probably used to fancy food. Not that you’d blame him. You would stab someone for some teriyaki right now.

Would Mumu have something like that in his magic bag?

Fucking magic. Unless it’s nano tech. You know, like people with armor and maces and primitive ass tents usually use.

What the fuck.

But that’s all problem number three. You will deal with that later.

***

Except Mumu looks entirely human. You’re trying hard not to stare at the back of his head as you walk along a dirt path. Round, human ears. Wrinkles beginning to form around his eyes. Stubble. His hair is starting to go gray, and what kind of alien species would decide on “mullet” as a fashion statement? Though it’s not so much a mullet, as the way he combs the top part back. If you combine that with the earring, he’s rocking a kind of “metro, wacky uncle” vibe.

The path climbs up. You’re heading away from the wreckage through a forest. The ground is getting steeper, the rocks bigger. You turned back, once, to get a glimpse of the carnage. You’d never imagined a UFO would be a big snail shell with squid arms smashed all over a coastline. But while you were in hell—!!!—you threw a broken piece of that shell at a demon, and it looked and felt like actual shell.

Aaand you’re filing that under Problem Three.

Goth Girl looks human, too, until you catch the points of her ears. Not as prominent as Fancy Pants—walking along at the back of the group, face turned up to the sun—but those aren’t human.

Aside from the ears, and Fancy Pants’ complexion, they all look remarkably human. Bipedal, with mammalian, primate features and hair and eyebrows and Goth Girl has boobs.

Is this even an alien planet? Or is there something weirder going on—you’re not saying supernatural. You’ve had more than enough of that already. What are the odds of green grass on another planet? Pine trees? They even smell like pine. The air is breathable. The gravity feels the same.

…is this Narnia?

No. Absolutely not. You haven’t seen any religious allegories prancing around disguised as talking animals. It’s not. It can’t be. You’re thirty-fucking-five, not a child.

Think of the pounding in your head. It hasn’t faded, though it has retreated into the back of your skull rather than lurking right behind your eyes, so there’s that.

And your clothes are starting to dry. Things are manageable. You’re going to deal with all of this.

The murder hobbit sours everything.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[nainathota-blog]

In a Nutshell

“I wish I had some eggs to throw at the building!” “Naina! Don’t say things like that.” “Why can’t they be reasonable to pressing circumstances?! Absolutely useless. I should have started sobbing in front of them.” “Ok do you want to turn back then?” “...sigh, no”

It was mid July and my mother and I had just left the India Consulate in NYC. I had failed to convince them to expedite my visa. The worst had come and I needed to cancel and rebook my flights to India.

“I know there is nothing I can do because it is out of my control but I just don’t want to seem irresponsible to Gram Vikas and Union” I stated.

My mother calmly replied, “Relax. Breathe. Like you said, it is out of your control and you did everything you could by traveling all the way to New York, they will admire your determination.”

The grey sky began to gently rain and frizz my hair. (How many times have I mentioned my hair in this blog, feel free to create a drinking game).

“Gah I just wanna be India!!!! I just want to proceed with my destiny!!!”

My mother ignored me and held my hand.

The rain began to pour and neither of us wore rain jackets or had umbrellas. We were unprepared for the day.

“What train do you think we can catch home?” “What’s the rush...we never come to NYC without an actual plan….let’s visit that church, I always wanted to see inside,” My mother squealed. I looked at her, and fell for her petite cuteness. “Sure.”

We walked through the side entrance of the church and sat down. Besides a few elderly people, a security guard, and a young man, we were the only ones inside. “The architecture is incredible. Look at that stained glass, look at the ceiling, are you looking?...oh Naina, smile for a minute,” my mother said as she aimed her camera at me. “Omg, amalu.” I forced a smile and posed.

We then sat down and my mother let her finger graze the bible. She then closed her eyes and put her palms together.

“Are you praying? In church? We are Hindu.”

“Does it matter Naina? It is a holy place where people have faith come together. Maybe the God is different, but the hope is all the same.” She whispered and fell into a hindu chant.

I looked around. I felt out of place. I started getting Life of Pi vibes, and the quote

“Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat wearing Muslims.”   -Yann Martel

danced in my head.

I looked around for my tiger, but just saw my mother and I proceeded to close my eyes and say to myself,

“Hey Vishnu, Shiva, Lakshmi, and uhh Jesus...I gathered you all here today to thank you for everything you have given to me. Great parents, great brother, solid life. Please continue to bless them while I am gone. And please let me make a great difference in India. Let me find a way to impact the people and them impact me. Please. I wanted this soo badly, and I am thankful that I got it, please just let it be magnificent. Oh, and speed up the visa. PLEASE.”

We finished praying and made our way out. In the foyer, I observed the elaborate paintings and tried to figure out which images depicted what in the bible. Until suddenly,

“Uhh Amalu, I think that we are in a black church.” “What makes you say that?” I pointed and stated “Because ya boy Jesus be black in the pics.”

We bursted out laughing and made our way to TWO more churches. To admire the architecture, take pictures, and pray to some higher power for a good future.

I look back at this day often. I was foolish. I believed that plans always go as planned. For goodness sake, that day in New York didn’t go as planned, how did I expect a whole 8 months to run smoothly? Smh.

-----------------

“Do you worry how Dharma will carry out after years once you step away from the company or once the scale increases?” I recently asked Anu.

“Actually, I hope the company will organically dissolve as the community becomes self reliant and gains confidence in their abilities through a fair system. The company is just a tool to help get the poor a seat at the table.”

I have been in the US for about 3.5 months. A lot has happened. I walked with some cool people at the Women’s March. I have spoiled myself with hot showers and Chipotle. I surprised myself by the not freaking out over a centipede in my basement. And I have been working with Anu, the founder of Dharma Endeavours.

What is Dharma Endeavours?

Dharma Endeavours (DE) is a for profit social enterprise that officially registered in 2016. It is located in the world heritage site of Hampi, Karnataka, India. Yes, this is a very new and young business but the way it thinks is something of the old, wise man. Like a Morgan Freeman.

It is a BUSINESS THAT EXISTS FOR ITS PEOPLE. Yes, all caps.

It is a forward thinking business that strives to better the community it serves.

I know. AHMAZING.

You see, DE isn’t giving something free to the poor. It isn’t in the poverty or charity business. It is a business that alleviates poverty. Let’s break it down.

It hopes to alleviate poverty by partnering with local families and providing them supplementary income to support themselves and increase their quality of life.

It partners together visitors and local NGOs to give back to the rural communities.

Ok, so what is it?

Think AirBnB for those craving an authentic, rural experience. Many local and world travelers are beginning to learn about this incredible heritage site hidden in Hampi. However, when they Google places to stay, not much shows up...because it is a rural area. SO, DE provides homes and rooms for visitors by partnering with willing families in the community. These families rent out spaces in their house to host travelers. DE makes sure it is clean, comfortable, safe, and modernized for guests. Not only does DE provide reliable housing, food, and transportation, it delivers a colorful Hampi experience. Whether it is an adventurous day on the shepherds’ hike, or visiting historical ruins, or making pottery with local artisans, DE shapes your experience to your interests. But more importantly, it advocates responsible tourism. Integrated into the visitors’ trip is working with a NGO that gives back in agriculture, waste management, education, etc. Only over a year old, DE has worked with traveling couples, families, school groups, book clubs, and boy scouts from around the globe.

Now, DE is finally creating revenue which will be distributed to all families who join Anu. Anu has truly found a way to make business personal again by not neglecting nor exploiting its community. DE has responsibly integrated within its society.

Alright, alright, alright. So what do I do?

Because Anu has given me the opportunity to work from abroad, I focus on community outreach and find clients. I look over the social media sites and reach out to travel influencers that can spread the word about DE. More importantly, I try to find international clients, specifically educational institutions to book a visit with DE in collaboration with their study abroad programs. Through weekly calls with Anu, I am updated about her activity in Hampi and am taught something about social enterprise. She informs me of the challenges she faces, strategies for the future, and more. Yes, living in different time zones is challenging and I admit, I get hints of regret of not moving to Hampi with her, but after every conversation I have with Anu, I leave mesmerized...  And a little bit more woke (I had to say it).

I leave thinking, look at this incredible woman who is running an operation by herself in a developing world. I think, why aren’t ALL businesses doing good for their community? Why aren’t consumers demanding more from their businesses? And more importantly, why has the poverty business created a donor/recipient model in which one is inferior to the other?

DE and Gram Vikas do not look at the poor as the poor. But as partners. As people.

And aren’t we all just that? People.

Yeah some of us are gay or black or muslim or have a disability. Some of us like pineapple on their pizza and some of us have their words silenced. But we are people right?

I majored in biology, and I know we all have the same biological components and our hearts are the built same. All our hearts feel love, pain, anger, and sadness.

So why is that people have managed to draw lines and build walls and create a hierarchy of who is better, who is superior. Why are you better than me, why am I better than them? Why can’t people create partnerships with people like DE/GV, and treat each other equally? Why can’t we create opportunities that are win/win for all parties?  Why can’t people just stop screaming for once and just listen to those that are different from?

Why can’t people of different beliefs come together and pray with each other like my mom and I did that rainy Friday last summer?

Don’t tell me to “chill” for getting worked up. Equality and the way we respect each other is something to always get worked up about.

----------------

So in a nutshell,

my fellowship was unconventional. But I learned from Gram Vikas. I learned from Dharma Endeavours. And I learned from India.

I learned that no matter where you are on the world, people are people. And we our responsible for raising one another up to our full potential.

See you all at church, or temple, or the mosque.

“The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?” -Yann Martel

Cheers for one final time, Naina 4/11/18

[entrevistasdalaura-blog]

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[glasgow-antionettem8i7496-blog]

Learn how To make more mOney With Namensschilder für Kleidung.

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[dirtykeds-blog]

Fashion Tips And Tricks Everyone Needs To Know

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[jilldchavez3]

8 Questions on Why do men pull away after a month I suggest you Reply Truthfully.

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from Rex's Opinions http://www.ouijamovie2014.com/8-questions-on-why-do-men-pull-away-after-a-month-i-suggest-you-reply-truthfully/

[illdothedisheslater]

A Day In The Life

I leaned against my coworker's door frame and posed this question:  "Cherry-rhubarb or strawberry-balsamic?"  My co-worker, Wally the Bunny (her chosen nom de plume) picked cherry rhubarb, knowing I was talking about jam.  After experimenting with pastas, pizzas, cheeses, and all manner of other nonsense, I may have landed on my true passion, which is sterilizing jars and making dozens and dozens of jams, pickles, and salsas during the summer months.  Not the most interesting thing to write about, so I won't bore you every week with another adventure in jar-boiling, but yesterday I was completely insane which you may find entertaining.  Wally had work to do, so I didn't bore her with the details of what fruit was on sale and where, and how I didn't want to go to more than one grocery, since I also needed beer and blah blah blah.  I agreed to make her chosen jam and headed off to shop.

Of course I then went to THREE grocery stores and decided to make three jams in one day - an unprecedented act of true bonkers-ness.  I came home with two pounds of cherries, one and a half of rhubarb, four pounds of strawberries, some fresh thyme, five pounds of sugar, and two pounds of red peppers.  (And beer, of course).  

What follows is a day in the life of a crazy person.

7:30 a.m. -  Fill up stockpot and start boiling water for jars.  Sterilize many, many jars for all this jam.

8:30 - wash and chop three large red peppers.  They have to be pureed, and I don't want to deal with the food processor and the 19 extra dishes it creates.  I try to use my stick blender, which fails spectacularly.  I lug out all the parts of the food processor, including a new non-lethal blade acquired after my campaign of shock-and-awe against the company who issued a recall for over eight million faulty parts, promptly closed the factory for a month, then told me it could be up to eight months before I got a replacement part.  Not cool.  So I immaturely started harassing them via e-mail, Facebook, Twitter, etc.  Three weeks of acting like an asshole got this squeaky wheel some grease, and they sent me my blade early to shut me up.  Success!

8:45 - begin boiling red peppers, vinegar, and sugar for jam #1 - Spicy Red Pepper Jelly.  It is very sticky.

9:15 - fill jars and process in water bath.  One down, three to go.

10:00 - Stem, then learn how to pit cherries.  I try a toothpick, paperclip, etc. as recommended online.  Nothing works.  I think about getting a cherry pitter, but I'm afraid if I brought one more kitchen gadget into the house, it would collapse into a sinkhole and I'd drown in a sea of spatulas and garlic peelers.  Also, Mr. Dishes will divorce me.  Finally I discover my usually useless 1/8 tsp. measuring spoon acts as a perfect little pit-sized scoop and I more or less get the pits out without destroying the fruit too much.  My neck starts to ache.

10:12 - Now I have to chop the cherries, so why the hell did I have to remove the pits so carefully?

10:15 - dice rhubarb in front of the TV, so I can catch the season finale of Grey's Anatomy.  Yes, I still watch it.  Yes, I know you gave up in season five when everything got weird with the ghost sex storyline.  Nevertheless, I persisted, because Kevin McKidd makes it all worthwhile.  Also I just want to sit down.

10:45 - cherries and rhubarb need to macerate in sugar for an hour or so - rhubarb (or "pie plant", in the Little House books) is sour and stringy unless treated properly.  I don't really know how to treat it properly, so I just throw sugar at it.  My feet hurt.

11:45 - boil up jam #2: Cherry-Rhubarb, fill jars, process in the water bath.  The kitchen is decidedly sticky now, and constant steam from the boiling stockpot has not done anything kind to my hair.  I don't frizz - I flop.  But my pores are open, probably.  I'm hungry.  I drag my stringy hair and sore feet to the grocery, and intentionally avoid the produce section.  I can't do anymore.  I just can't.  Not today.  My legs are getting sore.

1:00 - wash and hull four pounds of strawberries for jam #3 - Strawberry Balsamic with Thyme from Serious Eats.  (The other two recipes were clumped together from a bunch of ones I found online, so no credit given.)  Also have to sterilize a few more jars, just in case.

1:04 - I go to the bathroom.  There is a cherry stem on the floor.  Why? How?

1:05 - I wash my hands.  I'm not a monster, people.

1:15 - Mr. Dishes wanders in.  He's been wisely avoiding me all day, probably with his fingers crossed that I don't have a panic attack/temper tantrum in the middle of all this, leaving him with a sink full of dishes, several boiling pots of nonsense, and a sticky, crying wife on the floor.  He spends five minutes helping me crush strawberries with a potato masher.  He does it wrong.  

1:30 - I double the balsamic vinegar to make it more of a savory jam, since the balsamic-fig is such a big hit.  I boil.  I pluck tiny thyme leaves off the stem.  I mix and boil.  My back hurts.  

1:45 - I arrange a photoshoot for www.harvestandhoney.com (a much better, prettier blog than this one) tomorrow at my BFF's farm, where there are picturesque peonies, bee hives, peacocks, etc.  I check the forecast - rain, rain, rain.  Great.

2:15 - I text Ms. Harvestandhoney "I just put my last batch of ham in the bath to process."  She was like, "Damn."  I explain the auto-correct and assure her I'm not slaughtering animals in the backyard and processing meat in the bathroom.  Yet.

2:18 - I realize I'm kind of a ridiculous person.  I'm okay with that.

2:30 - I'm done.  For once I did dishes as I went along (approximately 397 dishes, if I counted right), so I can sit some more.  Sitting feels nice. 

3:00 - I attempt a picturesque shot of my jams in the sunlight on the back deck.  I can't get the little satellite dish out of the shot - the old homeowners left it when they moved, so it just stays on the garage, until one day it will fall and kill a small animal.  Whatever.  

3:30 - I open a beer.  Yes, it's a little early but I earned it.  I watch Netflix and relax. 6:30 - I drag my sore neck, back, legs, and feet out to dinner.  As I limp through the parking lot, Mr. Dishes forbids me from making anymore jam this weekend.  I have to agree.  But I will check the Sunday ads to see what fruit is on sale...

[krissysbookshelf]

Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek of: #famous by Jilly Gagnon!

Rachel likes Kyle. Rachel snaps a photo of Kyle and posts it online. Kyle becomes insta-famous. And what starts out as an innocent photo turns into a whirlwind adventure that forces them both to question whether fame—and love—are worth the price…and changes both of their lives forever.  

LEARN MORE

Chapter One

RACHEL

TUESDAY, 4:15 P.M.

Loving your mom can lead to some seriously bad decisions.

I’d agreed to tag along on her quest for face creams mainly out of boredom. But the mall with my mother on a Tuesday afternoon—as though I suddenly believed in the calming effects of retail therapy? We’d been here maybe ten minutes and already I was regretting it.

We were almost at the makeup counter that was our raison de mall when she grabbed a black, fluttery top with laces winding up and down the front.

“Ooh, Rachel, isn’t this nice?” She held it out to me. It looked like batwings in a corset.

“Not my style.” I pushed the shirt away, turning to a rack of oversized sweatshirts in neon-bright colors. Where had she even found that thing?

“No, not for you, for me. I think it’s cool. Edgy. Don’t you?” She held the shirt at arm’s length. One chunk of frizzy hair fell from behind her ear onto her cheek. She always cut it too short; at that length, hair as electrical-socket nutso as ours would not be contained behind mere ears.

“Sure, Mom.” I’d be pretty shocked to see my mom commit to a shirt she had to lace herself into. Usually her style tended toward neutral-colored sacks, but if she really wanted to dress like a vampire, I wasn’t going to tell her no. Besides, it’s kind of awesome when parents try to be cool, like watching a baby sloth play the piano or something. Terrible on the execution, and therefore adorable.

“Hey, do you care if I go get something at the food court? I went straight to ceramics club after sixth period, so I didn’t have a chance to get a snack.” Things would move a lot faster if she didn’t have me to bounce awful fashion ideas off of.

She glanced at her watch. “Meet me back here in fifteen minutes. I don’t want to spend the whole evening at the mall.”

“Sure,” I said over my shoulder.

“And don’t be drinking one of those gallon-sized sodas,” she said. “They’re poison.”

Mom was always finding some new threat to my precious development. Too late: I’d topped out at five foot three years ago.

I felt my phone buzz against my hip bone as I passed by Banana Republic, its faceless, elongated mannequins watching disdainfully as I rounded the Wet Seal, following the faint scent of tasty greases.

(From MO-MO): Do you have a new draft of Twice Removed ready yet? I don’t think I’ll be able to look at it until the weekend, but we need to be on top of this.

(To MO-MO): No, I had ceramics today. I’ll work on it soon—we still have what, three months until the deadline?

(From MO-MO): There’s no point in putting it off.

Mo must be stressed about something; trying to micromanage someone else was always her go-to when she had too much on her plate. We were applying together to a summer playwriting program with Twice Removed, but the due date for applications was forever away, and I was doing more of the writing regardless—Mo was more into performing, which meant I usually just let her help with edits. There was no point in calling Mo on it though, unless you wanted to intensify her stress-crazies. The best thing was to divert her to whatever she really wanted to talk about, so you wouldn’t start arguing about not-really-the-point.

(To MO-MO): Don’t worry. I’ll send you something by the time you’re able to look at it. Why so busy?

(From MO-MO): Did I ever mention how much I hate Europeans?

(To MO-MO): That’s racist.

(From MO-MO): You can’t be racist against a continent.

(From MO-MO): Trying to absorb the entirety of their pointless history—which is all just wars and oppressing women, BTW—is making my head hurt. I am SO going to fail this test.

Doubtful. Monique never failed anything. We’d been best friends since we were in diapers, and I couldn’t remember her ever even getting a B. In third grade, she made two entire projects for the science fair in case one was better than the other.

(To MO-MO): That’s what you get for taking smart-kid classes EVEN FOR ELECTIVES.

(To MO-MO): Guess how hard my Art II test will be? Oh wait, we don’t have one.

(From MO-MO): I hate you.

(From MO-MO): I take it back. Distract me. If my head explodes I at least want to die laughing.

I looked around for something I could send to Monique. We had this ongoing game where we’d send each other funny pictures on Flit (basically anything that got an out-loud reaction—from snort to guffaw—scored a point, honors system) and the mall was the perfect spot to play. Monique loved unintentional double entendres or grammar mistakes on store signs. I usually sent funny graffiti or dogs in clothes. There’s something about a dog wearing pants that never gets old.

I glanced around as I made my way across the mall to the food court, but nothing jumped out at me. And now that I was getting close enough to really smell all the different kinds of grease in the air, there was no way I’d be able to focus on the game. I was too hungry to hunt down a costumed Pomeranian. Food would have to come first. I spun around slowly, trying to figure out what I was in the mood for.

There was the depressingly beige buffet of breaded meat bits at China House (pass), sushi that was probably fresh off the boat a week ago at Japan EXPRESS (side of food poisoning, please?), Mrs. Butterbun’s Cookie Shoppe (even thinking about putting an inch of frosting on a cookie made my teeth hurt) . . .

That’s when I saw him.

Kyle Bonham.

Instinctively, I ducked my head over my phone and half turned away, so he wouldn’t think I was staring.

I was, obviously—you couldn’t help but stare at Kyle. He was about a thousand miles away from my type—so clean-cut he could be in an ad for drinking enough milk—and still I went fricking googly-eyed whenever I saw him. Extra embarrassing since I had fifth period with him every single day—it was only a matter of time until he caught me drooling.

He was standing behind the register at the Burger Barn, solemnly counting out change for a little girl who couldn’t be more than seven or eight. She had this dreamy, beaming look on her face, like she was so proud to be getting treated like a grown-up, or maybe like she was half in love with him.

You and me both, babe.

He placed a final coin in her palm and straightened up, his shaggy brown hair flopping over his forehead in perfect just-barely-curls. Somehow he looked even hotter here than he did at school. The burnt-orange Burger Barn T-shirt he was wearing made his eyes—a little too far apart on his face, which made them even more beautiful—look greener. He somehow managed to make his pointed paper uniform cap seem jaunty and alluring.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing a shapeless old oxford I’d stolen from my dad’s Goodwill pile. It was so long it made me look like a little kid playing dress-up, and it had clay all over the hem from where my apron hadn’t covered it up. Then of course there were the faded leggings, starting to go baggy at the knees, the Chuck Taylors that had gotten so scuffed over the summer I wasn’t even sure anymore what color they’d started as, and the sloppy side braid that did approximately nothing to contain the bursts of dark-brown frizz I call my hair.

Great look, Rach. No wonder Monique was always asking to give me makeovers. I was a fricking disaster.

Not that it mattered; I was not the kind of girl guys like Kyle Bonham—or really, any guy—paid much attention to. I’d managed to stay pretty much invisible for my entire high school career by hiding out in the art room. Especially to the painfully adorable lacrosse-star seniors who go out of their way to make even eight-year-olds feel special.

An older couple shuffled up to the register, staring perplexedly at the dozen or so variations on meat and cheese the Burger Barn packaged as “specials.” Kyle watched them blankly, looking like someone out of one of those catalogs where everyone is leaning against rustic wooden furniture just “being themselves.”

I should totally send a picture of him to Mo. After all, what could be a better distraction than a perfect-looking boy? Bonus: if I snapped a picture of Kyle I could look at it on my phone whenever. Yes, borderline pathetic, but it’s not like anyone would know but me.

I walked up behind the old woman, trying to look casual by keeping my phone down by my waist.

I tilted the phone up so Kyle’s face was in the frame. He was staring out over the rest of the food court while the older couple worked out their order. I couldn’t believe I was doing this; he was only a few feet away. Even with my flash and sound off, it would be so easy for him to realize what was going on.

But it would be worth it. In fact, this might be my best entry yet. Not like it was hard to find something better than a misplaced apostrophe, but this was gold-star emoji material.

As soon as he turned his head back toward the couple, I could take the picture quick and head over to the Pretzel Hut, like I’d realized I didn’t want anything Burger Barn had on the menu. At least, not on the food menu.

“Well I don’t know, Fred, I don’t think I want triple cheese. Can’t we get regular cheese?”

“Ma’am, if you like, I can substitute the cheese,” Kyle said, smiling easily at the older woman. She seemed startled that he was talking to her. Enough so that she shifted over into my frame right as I was clicking to take the picture.

Well, crap-sandwich. Great photo of old-lady shoulder, Rach.

I shifted my weight onto my left foot, easing over as imperceptibly as I could. Just move your arm, Grandma…

That’s when I saw her, sulking in the line for the Caribou kiosk about twenty feet past the entrance to the food court: Jessie Florenzano.

. . . and her mom, waving cheerily at me like I wasn’t the last person Jessie wanted to see, especially with her mom in tow. Jessie had been embarrassed by her even before our friendship imploded.

Jessie raised an eyebrow as though she could smell what I was doing. I dropped the phone down to my side and waved back. Jessie rolled her eyes and turned her back on me. I could see her whispering sharply to her mom, who smiled apologetically, then turned to Jessie, frowning. There were very few people I’d rather see less than Jessie, anywhere, ever, but I kind of loved that her mom still automatically acted friendly, four years after Jessie had sliced me out of her life.

I turned back. Grandma was laughing and nudging her husband’s arm.

“You know how I love pickles!”

Ew. Not the mental image I needed before eating.

Kyle smiled and tapped at the register. If I moved my arm a couple more inches… but not too far. He couldn’t know what was happening, and Jessie couldn’t guess; it would be way too mortifying. He tapped his fingers on the counter in a rat-a-tat rhythm as the old lady dug through her wallet.

He was perfectly lined up in the frame, the last traces of a smile lingering on his smooth cheeks.

I glanced over at Jessie. She was resolutely pretending I didn’t exist. There was never going to be a better time.

Click.

He looked toward me for a second. Crap, I was totally caught. I could feel my cheeks burning, betraying me. My breath caught somewhere around my sternum and stopped there, trapped.

  But then he smiled and turned back to the customer, taking her pile of ones and quarters.

I exhaled, trying not to grin. I cropped the photo, typing in Mo’s Flit handle so she’d see it. This was even better than a German shepherd with a tie.

“It’s Rachel, right?”

I looked up, startled. The old couple had moved away to wait for their order, and Kyle was staring at me expectantly. I checked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else. Like the Burger Barn only served Rachels or something? But I was the only person in line.

“Um, yeah.” I felt my face going hot again. “Rachel. That’s me.” Oh god, I sounded like the worst kind of stupid. Quickly, I clicked to make my screen go dark.

He pointed at himself.

“Kyle.”

I just stared, totally incapable of forming words.

“We’re in Creative Writing together? Fifth period?”

As though I hadn’t spent every day of the three weeks since school started thanking all the gods for that fact.

“Right,” I said, trying to sound like a girl who didn’t eye assault him daily. “You sit in the back, right?”

“Yeah! So Jenkins won’t call on me too much. I’m not as good as you are at that stuff.”

“I’m not that good,” I said automatically, looking down at the counter. Someone had made a ketchupy fingerprint to the right of the register. Like a cheeseburger crime scene. I couldn’t believe he knew who I was. The semester had barely started, and I wasn’t even his year. Not only that, he had an opinion about me. A nice one.

“No, you are. That story of yours that Jenkins read yesterday was… well it was really weird, but, like, in a cool way,” he said.

“Oh. Um, thanks.” All my words were melting, puddling around my feet in a big sloppy jumble, too liquid-slippery for me to get a grip on. The story had been about a computer that got a weird virus that convinced the machine it was actually the ghost of Queen Elizabeth I. He’d already summed it up: It was weird. I was weird. I could feel my armpits stinging with sweat.

“Anyway, what can I get you, Rachel from writing class?” he said.

You, shirtless, on a stallion?

“Um… what do you mean?”

“To eat?” He frowned. It made his nose wrinkle upward, like it was tethered to his forehead. I was so flustered about him knowing my name that I’d forgotten where we were—in line, at his job. He was being nice because he worked service. For god’s sake, he flirted with the elderly. Even more blood rushed into my cheeks. If you poked them with a pin they’d probably burst everywhere. Like that scene in The Shining all over the Apple Prairie Mall food court.

“Oh, duh. Sorry, my blood sugar must be really low,” I said. That’s always Monique’s excuse when she gets ditzy or snippy. “I was thinking, um, french fries?”

“Small?”

“No, large,” I said quickly. I was starving. He grinned a little, which reminded me that the girls Kyle Bonham hung out with did not eat large fries. They’d probably cumulatively eaten half an order of fries in the last ten years, which was why they looked like miniature supermodels and I looked like the funny friend. “I like how the large container makes my hands look extra tiny and stunted. It helps me get perspective on life,” I added.

Oh dear god, someone take this shovel away from me so I can stop digging my own fricking grave.

He laughed though, shaking his head slightly. “You’re funny. Okay. One large fry is gonna be four thirty-six.”

I dug in my purse for the money. He counted out my change and went to grab the fries. I could feel my heart rate slowing back to “not having a coronary” speeds.

“There you go,” he said. “I think this is the right size for your hands,” he added, grabbing one of my tiny fingers and playfully lifting the whole arm up in the air.

His touch was like an electric shock tingling up my entire arm. I almost snatched it back; guys don’t usually go around grabbing my hands. Only guys like Kyle—guys who win state sports titles and homecoming king crowns—have the balls to do stuff like that in the first place. I hoped I hadn’t nervous sweated enough to pit out my shirt.

But somehow I managed to keep it together long enough for him to squint back and forth between my hand and the fry box, measuring the two against each other before finally nodding as though I’d passed muster.

“Yup, looks like a fit,” he said.

He dropped my hand. I tried to breathe again.

“HA.” I forced a laugh. Poorly. “I should go. I have to meet up with my mom.” Awesome, Rachel, add to your intrigue by reminding him you hang out with your mother.

“Enjoy the fries, Rachel from writing,” he said, grinning. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” I gulped, nodding too many times, too fast. “See you around.”

I walked away as slowly as I could force myself to, which was just this side of a sprint.

Breathing hard, I plopped onto a bench near the fountain. That had been disastrous.

But at least I’d gotten my picture. That had been the point, right? To flit something goofy to Monique? I finished typing her handle, then—because of course I’m oh-so-witty the minute actual guys have disappeared—I typed in a hashtag.

Send.

Immediately, I felt a little twinge. What if he saw it? He’d know it was me.

But that wouldn’t happen. Kyle didn’t follow me—maybe ten people did. I flitted all the pictures in the game to Monique, I’d been doing it for months; no one had ever noticed them before. I think the most attention any of the pictures ever got was a single non-Mo luv, and that squirrel vest had been AWESOME. Why would anyone suddenly care about this one?

My phone pinged with the sound that meant I had a reflit.

I opened my feed to see what Mo had said.

@attackoftherach_face tonight’s brain food.

The picture I’d flitted was below. That sweet, goofy half grin lingering around his lips was too adorable. So much so that it had made me feel sassy enough to flit:

@Mo_than_you_know I’m digging what they’re serving up at Burger Barn today. #idlikefrieswithTHAT

God, I am such an idiot.

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[smartshopperteam]

How to Make Your Makeup Stay All Night Long, According to Rave Girls

SAVE ON WEDDING & PROM DRESSES at http://ift.tt/23SccX9 Where Smart Shoppers Shop!

There’s a reason why girls often take approximately 304 photos of themselves in their full Saturday-night, spent-two-hours-on-this-hair-and-makeup attire before even leaving the house: It’s the last time they’ll look put together before descending into the frizzy, sweaty realm of 1 a.m. hot-messness. You know—that golden hour before last call, when your eyeliner is making an escape down your face, your hair looks electrified, and your concealer already went home two songs ago? Beautiful.

MORE: The 9 Best Hydrating Makeup Primers for Dry Skin

Because for whatever reason (uh, humidity, dancing, sweat, etc.), going out and lookin’ good are not mutually exclusive—unless, of course, you’re a rave girl, where it’s literally part of your job to keep your face and hair somewhat picture-perfect while getting engulfed by swarms of sweaty people at EDM (electric dance music) festivals and club events. These girls are the ultimate experts at making their makeup and hair last all-night…and sometimes all-morning…long, and yes, they’re pretty much the unofficial pros at it, and yes, they’re about to bestow a ton of insider knowledge on your brains.

Photo: Courtesy of Marisa Barnes

First thing’s first, though: Rave girls are not strippers, or exotic dancers, or groupies. Rave girls are the glittery promoters of the EDM scene—and they take their job seriously. “We work with companies to bring people into events and keep them there, passing out massive balloons and glow sticks in between dancing,” says Marisa Barnes, a 19-year-old college student who’s part of The Iris Girls, the “it-girls” of the southeast music scene. “We have clothing sponsors, intricate costumes, and goals to meet; we’re not just shaking our asses on stage,” says Barnes, noting a sentiment very strongly echoed by raver Kelcey Rodriguez, a 28-year-old social media manager at iHeartRaves, a festival fashion brand on the West Coast, who’s a rave girl in the Unicorn Crew. “Rave girls aren’t all about dancing or drinking or going crazy,” said Rodriguez. “It’s not only a total lifestyle and culture change, but also a business for us.”

And being rave girls in two of the hottest corners of the country mean that Barnes and Rodriguez are masters at keeping their hair and makeup intact, despite the mind-numbing heat they’ve encountered at festivals. So to help you before your next night out, even if it’s just as that dive bar down the street, we nabbed their best tips, tricks, and product recommendations to try on yourself—no glitter or glow sticks required (though definitely encouraged).

Photo: Courtesy of Kelcey Rodriguez (right)

ALWAYS BE PACKING

“I sweat like a dude, and this year’s Imagine Music Festival in Atlanta was outside in July, which meant we were working a crowd of 30-thousand people in hundred-degree heat,” says Barnes. “You can’t carry a purse around with you for touch-ups, so we all made sure to stash oil blotting sheets and powder highlighter in our bra or boots. It sounds weird, but blotting your T-zone and loading up your cheekbones and Cupid’s bow with a ton of powder highlighter instantly makes even the sweatiest skin look fresh and glowy again.”  

PRIME LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT

“If you don’t prep correctly, your makeup has zero chance of staying on all night,” says Barnes, who always begins her routine by smoothing a dollop of NYX Angel Veil Primer over her combination skin (“it keeps my makeup matte and smooth”) and dabbing NYX Proof It! Eyeshadow Primer across her eyelids to prevent creases or smudges. Rodriguez, on the other hand, skips the face primer and instead sprays her clean skin with Urban Decay All-Nighter Setting Spray—“it’s like a base coat for my makeup, except super lightweight”—before tapping Nars Pro-Prime Eyeshadow Base over her lids.  

Photo: Courtesy of Marisa Barnes

  PERFECT YOUR BASE

Even the best primers and setting sprays won’t save you from looking like a hot mess if you’re using the wrong type of foundation and concealer. And for Barnes, the right base involves a three-step approach: Nars Radiant Creamy Concealer, which she blends in a triangle under her eyes, Make Up For Ever Ultra HD Foundation (“this stuff looks so natural, and it doesn’t budge”) buffed over her skin with a damp Beauty Blender, then Laura Mercier Translucent Loose Setting Powder, which she taps down her nose and under her eyes, waiting 15 minutes before brushing off the excess with a small blush brush. “Letting the powder ‘bake’ on my skin first keeps my makeup looking matte hours later, even if I’m sweating,” says Barnes.

Rodriguez, however, prefers a lighter touch, opting for BB cream during raves. “Foundation feels too heavy on my skin, especially at outdoor events, so I like using Garnier 5-in-1 Miracle Skin Perfector BB Cream as a base, then setting it with a mineral powder, like Urban Decay De-Slick Mattifying Powder, for a more natural look,” says Rodriguez. “Then, if it creases or wears off, it’s not as obvious.”  

MASTER THE WINGS

“My crew has found that thick, winged liner is the most-flattering look on stage and in photos,” says Barnes. “The shape gives your eyes this super-wide appearance, which kind of brightens up your face.” Her liquid liner of choice? Kat Von D Tattoo Liquid Liner. “Every rave girl I know uses it,” says Barnes (fun fact: Rodriguez does, too), “because it doesn’t flake, run, or smudge until you wash it off.” If your liner does smudge—like if you’re using kohl or pencil—don’t try to salvage it with paper towels in the bar bathroom. Instead, “rub your finger over a bit of Chapstick, then swipe at the liner without ruining your makeup,” says Rodriguez.  

Photo: Courtesy of Kelcey Rodriguez

  GO FOR LONG-WEAR

“I generally use lip stains, since I don’t want to be worrying about what my lips are doing, but if you want a color that’s one and done, use Jeffree Star lipsticks,” says Rodriguez. “They really stay on all night and give you the absolute best, most-opaque, truest color. And, because they’re totally matte, the colors won’t look super gaudy on your lips.”  

SEAL IT ALL IN

We’re pretty sure that if we asked one-thousand rave girls what their number-one, most-important, do-or-die beauty product is, they would all say setting spray. “E.l.f. Matte Magic Mist & Set spray is so lightweight and seriously life-changing,” says Barnes, who spritzes it over her face as a last step (even after applying lipstick), to keep her makeup from sliding off. “Setting spray is life—I mist Urban Decay All-Nighter Setting Spray on before and after my makeup, and my face really doesn’t budge,” says Rodriguez. But if you don’t have a setting spray handy, Rodriguez (cautiously) offers this cheap alternative: hairspray. “I wouldn’t recommend this for everyday use, or at all for someone with sensitive skin, but a fine mist of hairspray over your makeup will completely keep it from moving, even if you’re super sweaty,” she says.  

SKIP THE HEAT TOOLS

“The worst thing you could do before heading to a sweaty club is straighten your curly or wavy hair, because it’s going to frizz up and poof out no matter what you do,” says Rodriguez. “Usually, I’ll curl my hair with a curling iron, so when—not if; when—it falls, it’ll at least look tame and smooth. To keep the frizz away, I’ll rake Garnier Fructis Sleek and Shine Hair Serum through my damp hair before blow-drying it, then rub it a bit more on my dry ends.”

And, if all else fails, and your hair look like a dumpster fire by midnight, embrace the double buns. “I usually dab a bit of coconut oil around my hairline when my hair is sopping wet, which helps prevent flyaways, but if my hair is especially bad, I’ll clip it up into two space buns and add some glitter to my neck, cheeks, lip, and cleavage to detract from my hair,” says Barnes. “Glitter fixes everything. And honestly, the whole point of going out is to have fun anyway, so just embrace what you look like and dance harder.”  

Photo: Courtesy of Marisa Barnes

MORE: 101 Party Makeup Ideas to Try Right Now

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from How to Make Your Makeup Stay All Night Long, According to Rave Girls