Paging Winona Horowitz

I may be a brand-new blogger, but I know a few things. Don't overdo the blinkies, a la certain 1998 Geocities tributes to Pacey Whittaker. Don't publish anything I wouldn't read out loud to my boss. Do be succinct. And definitely do refer to recurring characters in my blog with snappy pseudonyms.

I do not know why pseudonyms are all that important in a personal blog. I guess the ostensible purpose is to maintain a modicum of privacy on behalf of people who never even asked to be discussed in the blogosphere. However, more importantly, using pseudonyms just seems to be What Is Done.

Unfortunately, I am having an extremely difficult time getting my compatriots behind the whole pseudonym idea.

The first pseudonym to-do on my list was finding one for N, my boyfriend. I had been thinking a bit about his pseudonym, and I had come up with a few ideas, none of which I really liked. At the top of the list was "Mein Herr," because his last name is German, and the Sally Bowles overtones pleased me. However, perhaps "Sally Bowles overtones" are actually just plain "Nazi-ish"? The only other pseudonym that came to mind was one that would draw on a famous namesake, such as Nelson Mandela, but, eh.

I called N to ask his opinion.

*I don't know. Do I really need a pseudonym?

*You do.

*But, um, won't all of your blog's readers be able to guess who the pseudonym references?

*What are you saying, that my blog is only going to have, like, three readers?

*Baby, no! I mean . . . no. Um, I dunno, how about something like with Nelson Mandela.

*Eh.

*Yeah.

. . .

*Any other ideas? I really think you should have a pseudonym.

*I guess you could refer to me by my dad's or grandfather's name.

*N, if you ran your own blog, would you ever consider referring to me by my mother's name?

*No, that would be creepy.

Next up, Faith.

*Faith, I've taken up blogging. Don't you want a pseudonym?

*I don't need one. Not unless you write, like, something really ridiculous and embarrassing about me. And even then I probably wouldn't care.

Tim, rather predictably, was more enthusiastic about choosing a pseudonym. "Are we talking something hokey and possibly alliterative, or, like, 'Rafael'?"

So I guess what it comes down to is that I have a new friend named Rafael.

Screws Fall Out All the Time

I emailed Tim that for my 28th birthday I would be purchasing an excellent face cream and also quitting smoking. His response was neither flattering ("but why would someone with your flawless skin make such an unnecessary cosmetic investment?") nor supportive ("what an inspiring start to a healthy and fulfilling year!").

Rather: "OH NO!! My birthday gift for you is RUINED!!!!!!!!"

Which made me feel, for the first time in my life, more akin to John Bender than Brian Johnson or Claire Standish.

First Sign of Springtime in New York

I ate my first PEEP of the season tonight! One of my co-workers went on a candy run and, mirabile dictu, returned with PEEPS. Very few people on a mission for candy to bring back to the office would choose candy of the PEEP variety, so I was pleasantly thrilled.

Tess once told me that when she was growing up, her mom would let PEEPS go stale and then would put them in Tess's hot chocolate. So Tess could be entertained by the rapidly dissolving bunny or chick while enjoying her breakfast. I mean it's a little terrifying, but kids have to learn the ways of the world sometime, right?

Mascara Maven

A few days ago I saw a woman sitting on the subway, putting on coat after coat of mascara, for literally five minutes. This struck me as notable for two reasons. One: won't her eyelashes fall off--- and shortly--- if she keeps up that pace? It is unsustainable. Another: how positively weird that people treat only very public places--- mass trans and airports come to mind--- as they would their homes. But, by contrast, if one were to apply cosmetics in a peculiar way or display strange eating habits in a law school classroom, people would point and judge. As I have done many, many times. Judged, that is. Pointed, also.

I read once that hand lotion is the only cosmetic that is polite to use in front of other people. And then only sparingly--- not slathered onto one's arms or anything gauche like that. But perhaps now, with the advent of you won't get a job if you're a woman who doesn't use Botox, the rules regarding public prettifying have changed. Or perhaps that rule never existed outside of the August 1996 issue of Cosmo. Must go consult my sources.