Bare-Faced Cheek

So it's November (yes, I haven't blogged a while; laaaarge catch-ups to follow, but to recap I finished work, got ill, got engaged and got fat again. Oh well, you win some....). November, the month of mortality. November, the month that "mists and mellow fruitfulness" becomes "fog and rotten pumpkins". November, which features no holidays and whose fun festivals all come at the beginning of the month. November, month of my birth. (And since you ask, I accept cash, cheques and all major credit cards. How very generous you are!) However, this post is about November, month of the charitable endeavour.

For the humanitarian menfolk, there is Movember, a concept to raise funds for prostate and testicular cancer by having people sponsor you to grow a moustache for 30 days, and at the end your mother/girlfriend/child/boss/fag hag will probably sponsor you to shave it the hell off; it raised seventy-nine million pounds in 2011 alone. For everyone else, there is Children in Need, the original telethon this side of the pond which has raised more than £600 million since 1980 for, well, children in need, fundraising mainly through sponsorships - walks, bakeathons, skydives, anything goes. However, this year, Children in Need has decided on a new initiative, BearFaced (spelling intentional - see their mascot, Pudsey): asking women to go makeup-free for 24 hours and get sponsored for doing it. Easy? Maybe. Controversial? Evidently.

Now, I love makeup. I almost always read the beauty pages of magazines first. I have trouble going to department stores without purchasing far more than I mean to because they have a "buy two and get ALL THESE FUN MINI SAMPLES (one per customer while stocks last)" offer on. I'm constantly searching for that one oil-stopping serum, that stay-in-place eyeliner, that kiss-proof lipstick, that foundation that doesn't make me look the colour of an Oompa-Loompa or a washed-out dishrag in a greasy spoon. Therefore when I read about BearFaced in this week's Heat, it seemed like an interesting challenge, so I promptly created a JustGiving page, made a Facebook event and prayed that enough of my friends would think it a worthwhile cause to get me to my modest £50 target.

Thus far, I've raised £110 in only 24 hours, which is more testament to the fact that I have genuinely excellent and very generous friends who have donated far more than I could have reasonably expected, and the majority of people who know about this idea think it's great, and raising money for a worthwhile charity. However, the idea of not wearing makeup for 24 hours being something large enough to be sponsored has been questioned and even criticised by more people than one might hope or expect for a charitable endeavour, and this prompted me to ask why this specific undertaking has caused so much hassle.

The issue most critics appear to have is that going without makeup is no big deal, that millions of women do it every day, that it's hardly stepping out of one's comfort zone to pop down to the shops with the wind hitting your bare cheeks rather than the tinted moisturiser, lip balm and clear mascara that is supposed to make up the average woman's daywear. And I agree, going bare-faced for a day may not be a huge thing for everyone, particularly if they're going to spend that day at home on the sofa, or in solitary confinement for a flesh-eating disease; then either no-one is really going to see you, or you have WAY bigger issues to deal with. However, if one is going out in public and meeting people, it can be a big deal, a VERY big deal.

There's the businesswoman with a high-powered job due to give a presentation to a potential client, who might use makeup as she would use power-dressing - as a uniform, a way to feel prepared, polished and confident, and to project a certain image; there is a reason it is known as warpaint. It may be unfeminist and it may set women's rights back fifty years, but in certain areas of life, a woman is more trusted and more likely to succeed if she looks like she cares and has made an effort, and often this means wearing makeup, however minimal.

Then there is the woman with severe acne scarring, birth marks or rosacea who may choose to use makeup to boost her confidence in a different way, in order to camouflage any marks which affect her confidence. For her, makeup isn't just to make her look pretty or to follow trends, it is a necessary part of everyday life to make her feel normal, and while this isn't true for most women, it does suggest that anyone who writes off not wearing makeup are being rather over-generalistic.

Equally, if one is to use the argument that bare-facedness is "no big deal", then I wonder what they think of the month's other charity event, Movember. If taking off one's slap for the day is easy, then surely failing to shave one's face for a month is no harder, after all many millions do it every year and it isn't life-changing or something nobody has done before (both arguments which I have seen used about BearFaced). To hold opposing views about these two fundraising events is hypocritical and would suggest that many have been too quick to judge this charitable endeavour.

And ultimately, surely that is what it comes down to? I am not asking people to give me money personally for not putting on my cosmetics. I am not asking for sponsorship for a devisive cause like freeing Palestine or a political party. I am asking for sponsorship for a charity which has worked for 32 years to help impoverished children get a better start in life, which has barely a hint of controversy surrounding it, which has simply chosen to allow people to fundraise in as many ways as possible. After all, one might put money in a charity bucket at the supermarket or in a school or place of work and expect nothing back; why should this be any different? I have sponsored people to run in 5K races for charity despite the fact that I know they run 5Ks every day anyway, it's "no big deal for them", but I don't mind, because the money is going to a good place. And if people can quibble about how fundraising is done when it is neither offensive nor illegal, then frankly that is just bare-faced cheek.

The (literal) ups and downs of underwear

I have not blogged for far too long. For this, I apologise; extra reps at the gym for me! ......Iiiiiiif I knew what "reps" were. Or had time to go to the gym regularly ATM (more of which below).

And here we are below! So in the past month or so I have not been getting exercise as routinely as I would have liked; a combination of ten days singing at the alma mater, a horribly upset stomach (great for the waistline, not so great for my social life: I was forced to miss the wedding of friends and I had THE best hat as well), and a 9-5 job for the summer has made getting to the gym tricky, to say the least. In August, I plan to hit it hard once again; I am rapidly once again hitting high levels of facial chub, also known as Churchill Dog Jowls or The Curse Of The Philips Family - The Hunt For The Missing Jawline (in cinemas now!).

This lack of exercise, coupled with a need for formal, and therefore structured, workwear, has meant that I have had to turn where I've never dared before venture - the scary section of the underwear department which sells control pants. Bridget Jones Knickers, tummy-sucker-inners, the modern corset, knicky-tams (loooong story); we all know them as something, but I, in my foolishness, had always knocked such sturdy foundation garments. I was young; firm of flesh; curves, plentiful yes, but in the right places; never to be seen in such sexless, Daily Mail-tested affairs..... WHO IS THAT MASSIVE-ARSED SACK AND WHY IS SHE STARING AT ME?!?

Oh, shit.

I have bowed to the inevitable and invested, and here is why. At the law firm where I file things in a windowless room, though am occasionally allowed out from my cave like some latter-day legal Gollum to re-organise textbooks (riveting, I know), everyone dresses smartly, sharply, and in either black, white, beige or a combination of all three. After three days in ditzy-print dresses and slightly conspicuous shoes, when the other student was wearing shirts and high-waisted trousers and had classy-looking black heels, enough was enough and I hot-footed it to the Debenhams blue cross sale (still happening, if anyone is interested). Here I found a black wrap dress with beige polka dots for an astonishing £9.50, and I have never been so excited, although in fairness it was the end of a long day and all I could think was "YES! Now I shall look like EVERYONE ELSE! Conformity rules!", showing just how shattered I was. However, there was one problem. I looked like someone had strapped feed bags to my hips and bottom. Can I get away with this, I wondered, or will horses follow me down the street, neighing in anger as I take what they suppose to be their dinner away with me. At this point, I headed for the undies section, wishing as I never had before for a suitably ironic hipflask full of margaritas (I tried that once; it is a bad idea. The flask stuck shut and I'm pretty sure there is still some mixture in there, slowly corroding the cheap, cheap metal).

The first pair I picked up looked like some form of tubi-grip for injured wrists and ankles, and were about as big. I tried stretching them, as I knew I would have to later on when trying them, and they literally snapped back and thwacked me in the eye, like in films. It would have been funny if I didn't look like a rabbit with myxomatosis for the rest of the shopping trip. That pair went swiftly back on the rack. The next pair were like beige cycling shorts, the sort that are given to people after they have had liposuction, and I'll be damned if I'm going to suffer that humiliation without at least having the fat vacuumed out of me first. I finally found a pair that looked like normal knickers, but sturdier (in that they were an awkward gunmetal grey and felt like iron), and after what felt like hours pushing and pulling and re-arranging (fat can be moulded, if you try hard enough seemingly), and twice almost falling over and bringing the curtain rail down, I was in. And the effect, while not spectacular, was effective enough to prevent Neddy and Dobbin from feeling cheated out of their snacks.

I also purchased some fabulous bras from the Debenhams own Gorgeous brand - the cup sizes go up to something huge, as do the back sizes, and are both pretty and functional. They also come with matching sooper-sexy briefs (FOR FREE) and are, unlike usual huge bras, not of the divide and conquer variety, which make you resemble a shelf to the point people balance things on you at parties, but actually give really rather excellent cleavage. I love, love, love them and I shall be back to buy more.

The control pants were not hugely comfortable to wear, although they did have the rather pleasant side effect of reducing my appetite by not allowing me to eat anything. They folded over at the top a little, giving a sort of odd non-chocolate mini roll effect which necessitated dealing with when sitting down or standing up, and going to the loo was a nightmare to the point that colleagues must either think I'm pregnant or on drugs, I was in there so long. However, it's almost impossible to overlook the shape they give, so I will definitely wear them again, as long as I'm not eating, drinking, widdling, sitting down or going on a date. So basically never, then.  

I think it might be time for me to be reunited with the gym.

What exactly is a Yoga Latte anyway?

So, around the six-week mark of gym-going, my routine of 30 minutes of cycling, 15 on the X-trainer, another 10 of cycling and then either the abdominal machine, some of the easier weights or dropping dead in a sweaty, wibbly heap on the floor became a tad repetitive and started to concern me that just doing essentially cardio was not going to turn me into the lithe, slim-but curvy and toned, non-wibbly goddess that I aspire to be. I also realised that however reasonable the university gym is, I was possibly not taking full advantage of all the facilities and so looked up the list of free weekly classes they offer to find something to help me mix it up a little.

At first glance, most of the classes seemed terrifying, with names like Spin Fit, Strength and Tone Circuit, Ultimate Abs and Run 'Til U Chun(der). The only one that looked appealling was Lo Impact Yoga Fitness which the nice girl at the desk explained was actually for OAPs, and the idea of being beaten to the Downward Dog Pose by a seventy-something in velvet sweatpants with Juicy on the behind (no jokes, I have seen one) is never that pleasant. And then I found Mind and Body. It sounded easy and relaxing and "for all levels".

 I have always secretly loved anything that promises to "relax" me, be it physically or mentally; I listen to podcasts and watch YouTube videos which teach me how to breathe for ultimate calm (which make me sound like a bouncy castle losing air), I do stretches to untense my neck and shoulders (which make me sound like I'm doing the orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally), I once even tried chanting (which made me sound like a twat). Therefore Mind and Body sounded perfect for me; I could stretch out my poor boob-supporting shoulders while breathing and listening to soothing music with someone in charge to make sure I didn't fall asleep with my headphones on and strangle myself (as once almost happened), all in a warm and caring environment in which all were equal and no previous experience was expected.

How wrong I was.

I arrived in my usual gym gear, as once again the catch-all phrase "wear comfortable clothing" had been used; of the two girls who had arrived before me, one was in yoga pants and what appeared to be a swimsuit, while the other was in skintight black lycra; it was in fact so clingy that I can only hope it wasn't some form of gimp suit. So far, so disheartening. They were swiftly followed by more of the same - skinny, muscled and strangely asexual American girls with super-scraped-back ponytails, leather thong necklaces and expressions that said "if it's not organic, wrapped in hemp and blessed by a Native American shaman then get it away from me, unclean one". There was one fairly large older woman, who I felt might be a kindred spirit, but turned out to be able to do a perfect Backwards Bridge or whatever it's called, despite having a larger chest than I do. Aaaaaand then there was the lovely old man who gave it all his best shot, but was distinctly possibly wearing his wife's jogging bottoms and then chose to stand in front of me. Not exactly ideal.

The class began when the instructor arrived, and at first she seemed like the ideal Mind and Body coach; cropped grey hair, weirdly sinewy body for her age, healthy tan, big smile and vibe that said "I swim with dolphins and meditate on mountains and my hair used to be waist-length before I cut it all off and wove it into a rug", although she seemed rather too perky and loud for my liking. We all took a mat (mine was slightly sweaty) and removed our shoes and socks, which I would have preferred to have been notified of beforehand as a) my socks were mismatching and b) I have no sense of smell and therefore get paranoid about.... foot-glow.

Then the instructor put on the first CD track, and instead of the tinkly synthy seashore waterfall trance tracks, so beloved of spas and shopping channels, we were treated to a series of rousing anthems which consisted of trumpets and cymbals and repeated phrases like "You ARE the powAH!" and "FREE yourself to BE yourself!" and "Raise your HANDS, love your LIFE!". There are many things I hate in life - eating anything that still has a face attached, being tickled with a feather, that horrible feeling when you've just dried your hands and you touch paper, Russell Brand..... But there is a special place of loathing for inspirational yet anonymous music, the sort that isn't for any one person or purpose, but tells you that, if you would just FREE yourself, you could BE yourself, without elaborating on how this is actually accomplished. I had hoped that the CD would be a mix of tracks, but they continued in a similar vein until the machine jammed and we had the same track over and over and over until the only thing I felt I had the powAH to do was run, run far away.

Even though the participants were clones, the instructor was terrifying and the CD was a nightmare in a plastic case, the class could have been saved by its content. Gentle stretching and breathing was all I wanted; heavy-duty yoga and pilates (yogalates) that prevented me from breathing was what I got. The instructor would rattle off a list of positions called things like Pregnant Cat and Weeping Sycamore and Horny But Gentle Elephant and everyone would begin swooping to the floor with a leg in the air while doing one-nostril breathing, while I suddenly recalled my PE report from S1 which stated "Annabel is a charming pupil to teach and tries her hardest. However she lacks any form of upper body strength and should not be left unattended while attempting to climb or lift." The highlight was perhaps a move that involved balancing just on one's hands while hooking one's ankles round one's arms. Bones cracked, chests heaved, the man in his wife's sweatpants swore in what may have been German and I looked around me and wondered if it would ever, ever end.

When it finally, finally did, and I staggered back to the changing room, winded and sweating harder than a priest in a brothel, the instructor chose to follow me, gave me a big smile and told me that "she hoped I'd come back, then maybe I'd improve". Then she hugged me. There are no words.

In short, I'm afraid I just don't bend that way.

Bump and Grind (oh, the size of my behind!)

I've never really been much of a dancer. When I was growing up, ballet was an upper-middle-class rite of passage for little girls (and mothers who knew they MUST get the right dance school or Catriona/Lily/Olivia wouldn't be asked to the right parties where at least two little angels would show up in the same Laura Ashley taffeta party frock), and as most rites of passage are, it was utterly hellish. At 5, my teacher was telling me to "hold in my stomach", which meant I didn't breathe for one entire class and went a really nasty shade of blue. And people wonder from whence my neuroses spring. At six, when all the other little girls were pretending to be swans or bunnies or butterflies for a "dance like an animal" task, I chose to be a donkey, complete with galloping, hair-tossing and some braying (accidental). At seven, I got the lowest mark in the class for my ballet exam. At eight, I quit.

In many ways, Scottish Country Dancing is much more me; I've been doing it since I was two on family holidays to Crieff Hydro (again, in Laura Ashley taffeta), and at least at ceilidhs, it is less about grace and perfection and more about having a galumphing good time. However, "social dancing" at school somehow managed to scupper this also; not only was it not cool to try but unless you were very popular or had a lot of friends of the opposite sex, it basically turned into two periods of humiliating rejection as your friends were asked to dance and even the one nerd you had managed to blackmail into asking you at lunch the previous day tried desperately to avoid your line of sight until you were the only two left and the gym mistress forced you together on pain of laps and press-ups.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I signed up to a course of burlesque classes last month (with a tiny bit of encouragement from ACS!).

The only guidance I was given by the dance school was "arrive early in loose clothing and with small heels"; to that list I added "have a glass of wine because the thought of both dancing and acting sexily in front of a mirror scares me cackless". However, the first thing I noticed was that there were people of all ages and sizes there, and many were in full makeup and cute outfits, rather showing me up in my uncharacteristic tinted moisturiser and joggers. The first week, we were emphatically told by our teacher, Gypsy Charms (who I later found out has a PhD in burlesque and stripping; you couldn't make my life up) that burlesque is NOT a dance form, it is a PERFORMANCE ART.... and then we proceeded to dance for an hour. We learned a traditional basic and then a modern, slightly Pussycat Dolls routine, complete with bottom-thrusting and hip wiggling and bump 'n' grind (which is basically a series of swivels and hooha thrusts), all while making the sort of facial expressions usually seen in a Carry On film circa 1972. I looked utterly ridonkulous, I missed some of the moves..... and I left feeling like the sexiest thing on earth. Christina Hendricks ain't got nothing on me.

This week we learned how to sexily remove a glove while shimmying our thang (or however many thangs we may have). The shimmying terrified me; while I have a natural sense of rhythm, nothing ever exactly moves when I want it to. My chest is usually at least half a bar behind - I move left, it goes right, I move right, it remains left, we stop to pose and I am still jiggling like a blancmange in shock. However again, no matter how stupid I looked in the mirror, I felt great. Some of the poses made me look like a geriatric with a bladder problem, others like my behind look the size of Arthur's Seat, and my face is still half blow-up doll, half terrified rabbit, but I'm improving. I'm walking differently, flirting more, and next time it is cold, watch out for my attempt to take off my cashmere gloves with my teeth before I run them all over my body.......

Fried Egg Rolls and Old Men in Shorts, or Why I Hate the Gym

Let's face it, very few people actually like going to the gym. There are people who claim they enjoy the "rush", the "buzz", the "routine", the "chance to ogle fit men in tight shorts". These people are liars. Plenty of people enjoy exercising, I myself used to kill it on the hockey field (literally. I once kicked a girl in the face. Acidentally, you understand, and her parents could totally afford the reconstructive surgery she may have needed). However, nobody likes the gym.

The usual reasons for disliking the gym are things like "it's BOOOORING" or "it's too faaaaar awaaaaay" or "I have to go rather than watch Made in Chelsea or have a social life" or "I've been a gym goer for three months now and don't seem to be any fitter" (reaches for cream cake). While all these things are to an extent true, I have decided to make a list of all the things specifically I hate about going.

1) I cannot complain that my gym is too far away; it is about 10 minutes walking at my snail-on-a-glacier speed, so going really isn't an issue. What is, however, is that on my way I have to pass a cafe called Breakfast, Brunch and Lunch which puts blackboard signs on both sides of the road so there is no ecape. Their main crime? Advertising the Filled Roll of the Day which is inevitably either Fried Egg, Fried Bacon or Fried Black Pudding (and one memorable day, all three). I love all three. I love them with a passion that is intense and bordering on the insane. Therefore you can understand why walking past such signs makes me weep and die inside.

2) Girly as it sounds, my hair. I struggle, struggle with my hair. It is thick and oddly poodle-like and while people often compliment its "mirror shine" or "glossy thickness", that only happens when I have spent many hours with hairdryer, Babyliss Big Hair, GHDs and the whole Percy & Reed haircare collection. You can imagine, then, that when I have a good hair day, it is a good day indeed. However, the gym destroys my hair. The combination of sweat, humidity and furious movement renders me flat on top and giant at the sides; sort of the ultimate hat hair hell but without a hat. I actually have to schedule gym visits for when I know my hair will look like crap (usually Day Three Hair when it could grease a wok), and that is very, very frustrating.

3) The Weights Room. I would very much like to lose weight all over and tone up completely, but one area I need to work on is my arms. They are overly flabby at the top and look something out of the Family Guy episode featuring Star Jones when her upper arms become wings and she takes off (I will try to find a link). Therefore I really wanted to do some weight work at the gym, to end up with lovely slim arms and better upper body strength. However, the weights section is always filled with men. Big, muscly, sweaty, scary men who bench press (what does that even mean)? 1000lbs easily and make screamy grunting noises while they use the rowing machines and judge me when I don't know how to use the equipment. And I can't ask any of them about how to use it because from their super-strength they all look like steroids have melted their brains anyway.

4) The creepy old men. So I was having a drink of water and a sit down (read - downing pints and collapsing with the effort) after my cycle and looked up to see a great pair of legs. And then an excellent bottom. Toned back. Quite tanned. And then.... a head of white hair and a giant bushy beard. Swear to God, the guy was about 70. I did not feel well at all after that, and he is not the only one; they are everywhere. I have nothing against the elderly exercising, it is very impressive. I just don't like them sneak-attacking me when I am low on fluids and therefore vulnerable.....

The Good-Restaurant-Fattening-Food Guide

OK, so I said in my last post that I would be continuing with the acronyms, but I'm going to leave that a couple of days and deal with the weekend, as it was the first time I'd been properly socialising over a protracted period.

So I spent Friday evening-Sunday morning away from the city on a visit to A Certain Someone, who I hadn't seen for weeks and weeks; I tried to be really good last week because I wanted to be able to eat and drink in relative freedom, at least a little bit! Also he is super-healthy and in ridiculously good shape so I don't want to let the side down, as he knows I am points-counting. We ate out three times, all of which were lovely, but not the healthiest thing ever:

Meal One - Mexican. We said no to starters, had glasses of wine rather than a bottle, and I ordered a salad. Brilliant, I thought; I won't go over my points and can have another glass of wine later, or perhaps some of ACS's Bucket of Bones (there was, like, a whole cow on that plate). However, there is a reason that Mexico is not known for its salad. This thing was like an amateur archaeologist's wet dream - that was how much I had to forage for the lettuce. There was half a block of cheese, tortilla chips, beef strips in cajun dressing, olives, guacamole, sour cream.... It was literally a mountain. I did not finish it all. Super-tasty though.

Meal Two - Country Pub. After several hours delivering leaflets for a Conservative council candidate (vote early, vote often, vote Tory!), myself along with ACS and some other volunteers went to a local pub for lunch. Breakfast was a fuzzy-head-hungover five grapes, and the ward we were flyering was not flat, so I plumped (lol) for fish and chips, though I did choose the small portion with peas. It was nom. I did not have all the chips. Somehow the tartare sauce disappeared from my plate though I have no memory of consuming it.... Not the healthiest option, but a ton of peas and the fact I wasn't at all hungry til dinner made it a winner. Sort of.

Meal Three - Indian. We drove a few towns over in the evening to go to the M&S for the Dine In For Two deal; their Count On Us range has ProPoints marked on the back for ease, it is so soooper. However, we drive past restaurant after restaurant aaaaand M&S is shut, so on his recommendation, we go to a great curry place. Again, no starter and I went easy on the poppadoms (OMG SUCH A CHALLENGE I used to eat a packet of eight from Tesco in one sitting. Eurgh), though perhaps a creamy korma wasn't the best plan. Along with two glasses of looovely pinot grigio. And another one at the pub. And some cava back at his house. And alcohol really messes with fat-burning. Gah.

On the whole, not my best. However, I managed not to use all my weekly points, got a decent amount of exercise and began to learn not to beat myself up over any little slip-ups as long as I have enough fruit, veg, water and exercise generally.

So, next, I must continue my acronyms, post about goals met so far and deal with the fact that however well I seem to be doing, it's an epic struggle and a half a lot of the time; cake is calling my name......

I tried to think of something which rhymes with "acronym" and all I came up with was "slim". Appropriate....

When I started blogging I knew very little about the process other than type in the nice white box, press the big orange or blue buttons to post or save and maybe pick out a nice background, which in this case is reminiscent of the very nice and VERY expensive Laura Ashley wallpaper my parents decorated my room with when I was 8 or 9 and that at the time I hated so much I tried to rip down. Honestly, the foolishness of youth. However, one thing that was always very clear was that I cannot name anyone on here, for both their sake and mine *coughnolawsuitspleasecough*. Therefore I've decided to give everyone super-fun nicknames that will shorten to acronyms! Yay super-fun! So, the most frequently mentioned people in the future are as follows:

PEOPLE I KNOW
-------------------

HamFace (HM) - my former flatmate, one of my closest friends. We have a hilariously dysfunctional relationship and our two years cohabitation was like living in a sitcom.

The Trifle Set (TS) - a group of friends I met during my first degree; we act like life ended in the early 1930s and have 10 course dinners with accompanying wine while wearing black tie a lot. Eating and drinking with them now is a challenge.

Gilbert & Sullivan (G&S) - another group of friends bound up in an operetta society. Again, eating and drinking a lot, or singing about eating and drinking a lot.

A Certain Someone (ACS) - someone I've been seeing for a while; he's a little bit older and lovely as well as being super-healthy and very encouraging! Also excellent cook.

Ace Gang (AG) - a group of friends from school who have been very encouraging about this; we are all trying to be healthy together and share tips.

Douchebags (DB) - men I have been involved with who have dicked me around, sometimes on account of the way I look. What a shock you will all get one day.

Swiss Family Mad (SFM) - my immediate family. My mother is also on a health kick so we have competition going on.....

This post was also going to feature People I Don't Know But Still Refer To, but there is only so much information even an endorphin-pumped brain can take. So chew this 30 times and digest slowly before the next installment tomorrow!