6 Recipes for a Zit-Free Face from a Former Hag

Not everyone is blessed with great skin. Being one of the unfortunate few, I not only was hiding under a rock when God sprinkled the gift of flawless skin on lucky life forms- I was snoozing like a rock, and evil forces fortuitously chanced upon me and planted weapons of mass distractions on my pathetic face. Hence, acne was born.

My pimples didn’t look normal to me. They were unusually huge and swollen, and they sprang up on my face by the bulk- every friggin’ day. Two or three of them never forgot to pop out to greet me when I looked at the scary mirror every morning. After some time, the mirror became scarier, and even became my archenemy when I refused to look at it anymore.

My junior high school prom was a near-perfect disaster. Days before the party, a whole squad of robust, outrageously enormous zits successfully invaded every fraction of my face. Unable to keep my emotions bottled up, I ranted my heart out to God, asking Him why it should happen during the prom, supposedly a highlight in every girl’s teen life, as what teen flicks and mags have urged me to believe. Thanks to the magic of make-up (the concealer to be specific), I was able to cover them up, albeit only for the night, or else I would have done a Carrie and burned down the venue with my pyrotechnic powers. Kidding.

My siblings and folks weren’t much of a help either, and in fact added to the acne-causing stress. They often gave ambiguous remarks, averring my claims (when I cried of having not a face with zits, but a zit with a face), but deriding me the next minute for being too self-conscious. Grrr…

Criticisms and jokes were slapped at me by “friends” and “relatives,” and on several occasions, stupid pranks or disparaging stares have been thrown my way from strangers who should have been minding their own worthless lives. Once, a cruel classmate from high school barked, “Hey Steph, why are you wearing polka dots? It’s not even New Year! *evil laughter*,” obviously referring to the fat, red pimples that seemed to have taken permanent residence on my face. Another nasty girl commented, “You look like a hag. The one with a pointed nose and a pointed hat in a broomstick.”

When I got tired of crying and protesting to myself, I took matters in my own hands and painstakingly scouted for solutions and remedies. Because of desperation, I believed in and tried everything even unreliable sources claimed to be effective. Here are some of the stuffs I’ve tried, or concocted by my lonesome when insanity became the name of the game as I pretended to be my own Vicki Belo. This list isn’t complete though. The other medications I’ve tried, I may have pushed to the hinterlands of my consciousness out of too much trauma and humiliation.

1. Calamansi (lemon) - Ew. I can’t believe I was able to put up with this device of my insanity. Because it was acidic, it always left a burning, stinging sensation on my pitiful pimple that could make you grimace in a way no different from when you actually taste how sour it is. Acid. Sour. Harsh.

2. Evaporated milk with calamansi juice – More ew. For this mixture, I simply blended the abovementioned calamansi with a splash of evaporated milk in a small bowl, and lathered it on my entire face until the liquid concoction dried and shriveled. Although it did yield smoothening results, I couldn’t tolerate its unpleasant odor and the uncomfortable feeling you have to stomach as you wait for an excruciating 30 minutes or more to see the fruit of your vanity.

3. Ice cubes- I fondled my face with it whenever a big puffy zit decided to ruin my day again. It had a numbing effect that somehow shrank inflamed zits and reduced the redness. But as I have mentioned, it had a numbing effect. Period.

4. Perla- Blame me for my susceptibility to beauty secrets dished out by artistas, I tried this laundry bareta out honestly hoping it would turn out to be my savior. So stupidly scrub I did, and regret came only two days later when I noticed my face turning blotchy and a new generation of bumps growing out like plants on my face.

5. Whatchamacallit face cream from the Middle East- This one cost an arm and a leg, but FYI for the nth time, I was desperate. It looked weird and smelled like it too, but it did clear up my skin in the summer when I got to get enough zzzs. I stopped using it when I noticed my skin becoming immune to its chemicals, thus, I was back to being Ms. Chicken Pox in no time.

6. Cetaphil- This one didn’t really do much damage to my skin. In fact, I would still recommend this cleanser but only to those who have either dry or sensitive skin. You can even use this as a make-up remover and even without water. But for the population segment who have either acne-prone or oily skin (or both), this may not be the best choice for a cleanser. I had recurring breakouts after a week or two of use, and I swear I could hear my sebaceous glands working out to make my face greasier.

But if all else fails, then I'll just stalk the real Belo.

Sex and the City Movie: Not Just Another Chick Flick

Finally! After the rise and fall of gazillions of tacky fads for several seasons, the real stylish crew from Manhattan is back.

Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker and every strand of her curly blonde locks), Samantha (Kim Cattrall, who has recently turned 50), Charlotte (sweet and charming Kristin Davis), and Miranda (redhead Cynthia Nixon) are bound to take the world by storm once again, this time on the silver screen.

With the script being penned by the illustrious Michael Patrick King (the writer for the series since forever), I just can’t wait to start munching some popcorn and enjoy not just the racy humor, but also the chic outfits. Manolos anyone?

As tasty icing on the cake, Chris Noth is also back as Mr. Big! (Okay…I’m giggling like a high school groupie now.) Picturing the twosome back in each other’s arms makes me fantasize about finding Big love in the Big Apple someday. Enough said.

It was from the SATC series that I first gained a smattering of everything New York, haute couture, the über-great lives of independent career women, and of course, sex. And its many incarnations.

I first caught sight of the Emmy Award-winning show way back in third grade. Thanks to my sister who worships Cindy Crawford and the rest of those lanky ladies on the runway, I got hooked to it after tracking the lives of the fabulous quartet for an episode or two. But given my tender age and then-pristine head, I often had dazzled and unbelieving feedbacks after every episode full of their “sexcapades” and campy conversations over coffee any grandparent shouldn’t eavesdrop in. “I can’t believe people do that!” or “Oh no, she didn’t!” would escape my mouth as I cozily prop my feet up a sofa and glue my eyes on the screen every Tuesday and Saturday, unconsciously losing a sliver of my naiveté after every episode. Yes, it’s all fiction. But art imitates life after all.

“When I grow up, I want to be Carrie Bradshaw,” I reply to some of my close peers, every time talks of career plans brewed among us. The show made quite a hefty impact on me, and my perception on tons of taboo subjects, and made me brave enough not to cringe when I hear the word “sex”. And though it turned me into “the” precocious little kid who knew too much about sex, it didn’t just teach me that tongue action is a no-no when kissing (and a lot more risqué stuff) and that fashion fades but style lives on, it also imparted life-changing lessons on friendship (or how your girlfriends will stick with you through drab and fab), love (or why your luvah doesn’t always turn out to be that lovable. Not even in Paris.), and loving the skin you’re in. Which, by the way, you should drape with nothing but fabulous clothes.

I could’ve used up piles of Kleenex had I not tried to compose myself as I watched the cast and crew bid goodbye on the final episode of this well-loved series. I thought I’d never see Carrie and the girls again. But with this movie in the offing, I have no reason to snivel anymore. Now all I have to do to is to wait for Carrie as she clicks on another query for her column, this time with loudspeakers and a giant screen.

Long live SATC! And to the filthier-than-yeast infection brain I got from it.

A “Spur-of-the-Moment” Thing

Perhaps one of the most effective means to gauge a person’s fun factor and sense of adventure (read: not boring) is through the way he plans. Or the way he doesn’t at all.

The first kind encompasses the conformists and martinets who have shape-shifted from organizer notebook-toting taskmasters to MacBook-sporting multitaskers. They are the sticklers for rules, the madmen who think they can live without oxygen but not without their priceless skeds and to-do lists.

The second type comprises the carefree, happy-go-lucky souls who truly believe that time and space will forever be at their beck and call, and are often caught in their most unguarded, but only because they never wanted to guard themselves in the first place. They’re the free spirits who soar and don’t mind getting jammed or stuck midway, because they’re captives of the moment, and of that moment alone.

Luckily and unluckily, I fall under the latter. Yes, still the same boring, predictable me. Being reared in Catholic schools and by conventional parents all my life has permanently engraved a set of tenets in my psyche that I have tacitly taken to heart. Like the default options of the computer, my life has been predestined, programmed mostly by my folks, and by the deluge of customs that I have willingly been fed.

But once in every layman’s dreary existence, he gets to taste the sweetness of spontaneity. Of stories unwritten in the books. Of random rules established through pure gut feel. Spur-of-the-moment. And then he starts wanting it more.

It wasn’t such a difficult decision to make. My mind suddenly chased away whatever second thoughts might have been badgering me as I geared up for the climb over the forbidden rusty gates at the back area of our campus. Our very Cathoilc school superiors prohibited us to leave its premises on the first day of our Sportsfest, the same day my group mates and I have set to conduct a now-or-never interview for a project of a 4-unit subject.

Upon the advice of a close pal whose middle name is “truancy,” six of us sneaked towards the gate that led to another entry and our only chance of liberty, but not without conquering the obstacle in front of us, a corroded gate which spelled T-E-T-A-N-U-S, and bags of trash eager to give you a stinking welcome if you unsuccessfully fall on your butt after the climb, or worse, on your face.

To do it, or not to do it? What would I lose anyway if I did it? I certainly wouldn’t mind losing a slot in the Most Wanted list of the S.A.O. Office. And if I do come down with an appointment in the S.A.O., then my retribution has been meted out fair and square. “If we’re going to do it, we do it now,” one of the wiser lawbreakers opined with conviction. Though we were but a few feet away from the direct gaze of our Clinical Preceptors who were lounging in their Monobloc chairs on the grass, we finally carried out our grand escape.

Each of us stealthily made the climb up, doing so without catching the sight of the busy and frolicsome venue where the athletes showed off their own escape plans against their opponents, (hopefully) oblivious of the six mischievous outlaws snaking their way out of the prison not far from where they were.

Those monkey bars in kindergarten did me good this time, I said to myself when it was my turn to grip the grimy rods of the gates. Heavily coated with rust, I couldn’t stop the gate from jangling, much to the alarm of my anxious companions. But in no time, I successfully made my way down. Yipee!

Unlike the utterly magnificent adventures and misadventures of some, mine was way below the “cool” radar. But not at all that bad for a “shy Catholic schoolgirl” who considers watching too much TV and copying assignments her closest attempts at breaking the rules. Besides, I still happily rhapsodize about those minutes of uncalled-for madness up until now.

That’s the beauty of anything spur-of-the-moment. Don’t think, just do it, and have a blast while you’re at it.

Carpe diem!

To Infamy...and Beyond!

“Somebody made a comment,” our S.A.O. supervisor gingerly told me, “that you are…weak in leadership.” She finished with finality, but evidently with much worry, as she examined my face for any reaction. I was having too much of a fine day to care about anything other than the scoop of mouthwatering chocolate sundae waiting for me in McDonald’s, and the thought of plunking my tired feet on a cushion as I get home. Without throwing caution to the wind, I blurted out, “Ma’am, I myself admit that I am not that great of a leader. I’ve always hated responsibility.” I replied with a smile that may have seemed too enthusiastic of an answer.

Several months ago, I was (forced? blackmailed?)…persuaded, to be the heir to the thorny crown that I have now fastened securely on my tormented head. Having no other scapegoat to appoint, the editor-in-chief chose me (the different nuances of conscience in my head scream in unison, “Huuwaaaat???) as her successor, a.k.a. eternal slave to deadlines, babysitter of insouciant staff members who are more passionate with nicking snacks than writing, and the whipping girl at the receiving end of all the bad publicity and rep the publication may get.

At the time of the bequeathal of the editorial positions, I failed miserably to execute my escape ruse, (either jump out of the window or feign an epileptic shock) and wrestled with my alter ego to restrain myself from breaking down and screeching with all my might, “Just let me write!!! Don’t feed me to the lions!!!”

But the problem is deeper-rooted than anybody might think: I have always been a loser in the leadership department. My leadership skill can only be likened to Lindsay Lohan’s ability to ward off intrigues, or Juday’s singing talent. Abysmal. No, non-existent.

Case in point: Back in first year high school, I received some good lambasting and scoffing from my classmates who picked me as president, and would’ve possibly undergone an impeachment trial and disgraceful descent from glory like Erap, had our class adopted the same bureaucracies as our national government. It wasn’t like they could blame me for everything. They apparently also had major “lapses in judgment” when they elected me just because of their silly assumptions that I’d do as well in the mazes of leadership as I did in the jungles of academics. Well, they thought wrong.

Our S.A.O. Officer, an affable young woman in her 20s, was, in my mind, taken aback with my response. Considering the “frail and vulnerable” image of myself I may have had imprinted in her brain, I have surprised her this time with my (dare I say?) boldness and sensitivity to the jumble of issues that are just the beginning of this mess I plunged in called editorship.

“But I’ve adjusted pretty well now. I just had a hard time last summer contacting the members, but everything’s okay now,” I retorted with much ease, the intimidating vibe in the office dramatically waning with every word I spewed out. “I actually REALLY love the job now. I’ve adjusted quite well and I’ve become really close with some members and I’m so excited for the release of the magazine,” I uttered amazingly in a single breath. Damn! It’s incredible the vigor that’s propelled into your system after finishing a grueling R.L.E. Unit Test. Even 20 sachets of 3-in-1 caffeine fix couldn’t make me that verbose and uninhibited.

I guess it is passion. Yup. That’s one thing we direly need to break the barriers, cross our limits, and honestly affirm ourselves that we’ve actually done something right and worthwhile once in our wasted lives. It impels people to change religions and dogmas, coerces them to play daredevils for a dream’s worth, and, as it had done to me, makes losers think twice and have the nerve to swim with the sharks again.

Crazy, I know, but disturbingly true.