Skincare, but not like that Goop shit, I swear

Oh, hello! Hi there! Welcome (back?) to The Blog That I Never Update! I've been feeling the itch to write more, so I decided to share something I spend a lot of energy (and, LBR, money) on; taking care of my skin!

I have always been a pretty obsessive person. This should... not be a surprise to anyone. This extends to pretty much anything I am interested in, but this series will focus on how I am currently taking care of my skin. I will share what has worked for me, but I'm like... not an expert. Just an obsessive nerd who has skin. 

I decided to break this post down into three main sections for #content but also because I will go on and on about this shit and I think having it spread out a bit will help you to absorb (... like a serum or an oil... get it.......) this info.

Routine! So. The big one. I happen to love (and crave) routines, but I know this is anathema to a lot of people. I'll describe my routine here, and a bit about how that has evolved and changed over time, and you all can decide what kind of routine would work for you and your lifestyle. I will champion a skincare routine in general though, because I genuinely think it's a helpful and meaningful way to give your daily life some structure while also tangibly expressing ~self care~ for the first thing you present to the outside world! Oops sorry this got slightly really actually I'm not sorry at all!

Products! This is probably the post where you will all back slowly away, trying not to bare your teeth to disturb what is clearly a troubled mind. I am into ~products~ and things that will ~fix my life~ for ~$25~ and restore the balance of a ~swamp chemical~ found in my ~pores~. I swear to you this won't be a Goop / Wellness Bullshit-fest, but I do want to acknowledge that, yes, I spend too much at Sephora. Look we're ALL just trying to exert some measure of control over our chaotic and terrifying existences, and I won't apologize for doing it through the medium of Kiehl's facial oils.

Occasional Facials! I am not a big spa person, and have only recently started trying to institute a facial routine. This practice has been helped enormously by having access to a spa chain I actually really like, Heyday. There are several locations in NYC, and a new one in LA. I hope they will expand further afield, but if anyone has recommendations of spas in other locations, please let me know! Anyway, Heyday is great–I'm sure their venture capital marketing strategy calls them 'The Drybar of Facials' bc that's what they are, but I really appreciate basically everything about their model and philosophy. It's easy to book an appointment online, they don't upsell you, and (my favorite) they are really transparent and science-focused about what and why they use the techniques and products that they use. They will always explain what they are doing and way, and give you tips and advice on how to best treat your skin on your own. Basically this section will boil down to how it's good to find spa or esthetician you like, I guess!

Okay this will be fun! Let's go!

Ready for (the) Fall

You know that gut-sinking feeling you get when you are about to fall and you know it? I think I prefer it to the utter shock of suddenly and painfully being on the ground. At least when you can tell you are about to fall, you can try, however pointlessly, to do something about. To brace yourself, or catch your errant foot, or throw your hands out in front of you. Plans, hope, maybe you can stop this, maybe it will all be okay.

Twice I have been around palliative care, do not resuscitate, 'just let it go' hospital rooms, and both were anathema to that instinct. By definition there is nothing that will 'make them better', no 'well, maybes this will work out', no 'maybe they can try this's. I like to think of myself as mostly a realist, but those experiences let me know I was still an optimist. Sitting, trying desperately to cheer everyone up, lighten the mood, remind them of the good times. Too much, probably, but also completely unable to sit quietly and just BE in the grief.

Falling up the stairs is one I do a lot (or more than most people anyway). You're down, but somehow still almost upright. Disconcerting, but facing the right way. And not too horrible, unless it was on the subway stairs. Then I need to get home and burn all my clothes.

The last time my grandfather spoke my name was the night before I got there. A younger nurse came in to take his vitals, and my aunt told me he had thought it was me, and called her my name. By the time I got there, maybe 14 hours later, he could no longer speak. There was nothing earth-shattering he wanted to say to me, but I didn't get to hear him say my name ever again.

It's too hot. I am sick of New York. I love New York, but I am too tired for New York. I am ready for the fall. I want to obsess over finding the Perfect Boots, not have to remember that leaving my bedroom means constant unpleasant sweating, overheating, heat-rash and the exhausting sun. What am I doing? Where am I going? LA was relaxing, but was it only relaxing because I didn't have to go to my job?

My grandmother is having more short-term memory problems. My grammy. The best person I know, the best grandmother ever, the funniest, kindest, silliest person in the world, my last grandparent. In pain, tired.

Never understood people who LOVE change. I'm all for flexibility (in other people), but there is a difference between wanting to know when change is coming so you can brace yourself and wanting to fall.

I don't want to fall.

Space

Last night I got on the train with a packed backpack and a bag of groceries, and I chose to sit between a dude whose legs were covering half the seat next to him and a white lady whose legs were crossed and her arms folded in on themselves. I sat between them, putting my backpack on my lap, and my grocery bag between my legs, and here’s the kicker—I took none of the woman’s space. I pushed up only against the dude. I didn’t push him, I just asserted. And when he... asserted back, I didn’t back down. It’s a subway thing I’ve been practicing for awhile, refusing to make myself smaller. My foot was planted the at the width of my stance, and wasn’t budging. I’d forgotten a book, so I calmly and deliberately took out my phone and started playing some dumb candy crush clone.

I could feel the bafflement pouring off him—he glanced next to me, to confirm that I wasn’t taking up the other lady’s space. He moved his head around in that subtle ‘what the fuck is happening here?’ way for a couple stops and then, fed up but not quite willing to yell at me, he got up and moved to a seat across from me. Not even down the car, for the pretense of it, but directly across from me.

When I looked down, smirking and trying not to laugh out loud, I saw that in ‘taking up some of his space’, I still had almost an inch of space in my OWN SEAT that I wasn’t even taking up.

It’s a small violence, perhaps, the way our culture demands that women take up less space, to be accommodating no matter what… but it’s a violence nonetheless. I suspect it’s one that petite lady-types are subject to the most.

I am small. I’ve always been small. Sometimes when I stand up I’m slightly surprised that I am as tall as I am. But my bones are small too. My shoulders are straight but so delicate, it’s creepy. Mostly I am content with it, but in my secret fantasies, I am tall and broad and I have muscles for days. I don’t want to be your doll, I want to be a warrior.

After he moved, the woman who had been sitting there first got up and sat next to me instead, clucking because he had invaded her space. It was genuinely hilarious, really, but I wish she had done the same thing to him that I had done. Shit, that would have been great.

I will not take up less room so that you can take up more, dudes.

Ask.

Jiwon Lee’s body was found Sunday. She’d been missing since April 1st.

If you need help, please reach out.

When the posters first went up, first on the trains, and then on every street corner, I didn’t recognize her. Even in Crown Heights, there’s one right on Classon and Prospect. I saw a guy taping it on, struggling with a gusting piece of packing tape.

If you’re too sad to live, please talk to someone about it.

Then comedy friends started posting about knowing her, asking their social networks to keep an eye out, and report tips, and donate to the fund for a PI her brother was organizing. This is the first time the actual government beat my social media network to informing me of something.

If you can’t imagine existing for another day, let someone know.

One day, a friend posted a photo of Jiwon online that looked a little different. I’m not sure how to describe it. Her face looked… more focused, maybe? I think it was her ‘stand up’ face, lit up by the joy of the stage. Or maybe guarded to get onstage, I don’t know. A performing face, anyway. But suddenly, I recognized her. I’d seen her perform, at Rififi’s, or Mo Pitkins, maybe. Parkside Lounge? I didn’t know her well, and she mustn’t have hung out in quite the same circles, or I would have booked her on my show without a doubt. But I think we spoke at least once, and I have a memory of it being at the Creek. Funny how I didn’t recognize her for weeks, until I saw that stage face. I can remember her voice though. There was a unique cadence, and a sharpness to it that I remember.

If you feel totally overwhelmed by your life, please ask for help. Tell people what you are feeling.

The beginning of this year will always be tied up with those posters, for me. Jay Ott* and Jiwon Lee. Two handsome, intelligent, capable and successful people, whose internal existence, it seems, were far less bright.

If all you can think about is killing yourself, and how it would be preferable to not be alive anymore, please reach out.

On Wednesday, it was pouring. I has an afternoon show, but I didn’t want to walk 15 minutes to the fast train, or even 12 minutes to the medium paced train, so I walked east to take the Shuttle train. As I crossed Classon, I saw the poster of Jiwon falling off the post, ripped and soaking and broken. It was raining so hard, and the poster was just paper. But it was hailing a couple weeks ago and the poster was still up!

If all you can think about is how it would be better to be visibly injured so you could actually do something about it, call a helpline.

I remember thinking that she must have done it, and I got so sad and angry. Not really angry at her, just angry. Angry that’s our culture makes it hard to reach out. Angry that mental illness and medication is still deeply stigmatized. Angry that it’s hard to talk about how we feel inside, even to people we love and trust.

Send an email if your voice won’t work. Send a text if an email feels too hard or too real.

Please, please, please don’t kill yourself.

*Jay Ott has not been found.

Blogging...

That is exactly how I feel, Tony.

It's just hard to bring myself to care about blogging these days. And by 'these days' I mean 'since 2009'. I love Tumblr, but what I love on Tumblr isn't really 'blogging'--it's a strange version of a forum, but a dizzingly busy one. I love reading new stuff, and seeing funny or touching gif sets, and making new friends. I pretty rarely feel compelled to write out my own, longer form thoughts. That's too bad, I guess. Having this blog will be a pretty good excuse to get back to it, huh? Okay, sounds like a plan! More writing here soon!