Another Direction

Soooo…life has taken some dramatic turns here at the Staycation lab. Actually, the Staycation Lab has been relocated altogether, which is part of said massive changes.

I had an idea of what I wanted this blog to be, which morphed and shifted over time. With the Staycation lifestyle (heh) so dramatically in upheaval, this blog is undergoing a facelift of content.

Stay tuned. Wanna hear about life in a new town? The perils and terrors and ins and outs of home ownership? Puppies? Really, really BIG PUPPIES? Bookmark this page, my lovelies.

Snapshot of a Restaurant – or, BE NICE

“You can learn a lot, watching things eat.” – Frank Costello, The Departed***

I’m of the opinion that everyone should spend about six months or more in the restaurant business.  Waiting tables, hosting, cooking, running food; they’re all things that teach a person patience, diplomacy, and empathy.  Really.

Today was my Mom-date.  A weekly occurrence that is sometimes augmented by the presence of my grandmother, my mother and I have lunch together, and sometimes window shop.  My mother and I are opposites and yet sometimes eerily similar, so it all works out.

Today we chose a fairly nice place for our repast – we’ll call it Res (you know, like short for ‘restaurant’).  Res is the type of place that’s nice enough to boast an executive chef, yet its not pretentious enough to scare people away with a thirty dollar salad.  Cloth napkin clad and offering an intricate cocktail menu, it’s dark recesses offered a welcome respite from the summer heat.

The dude who seated us (whom I shall from here call Mark) noted that the rush was beginning and that apparently our server was swamped.  He was nice enough to bring me my water and my mother a cup of coffee, and then took our order. He paused a moment to chat with my mother about her electronic cigarette (look it up if you have to) and then was on his way.

We tucked in to our lunch.  In the small silent moments between bites, I noticed a commotion at the table next to ours.  There seated were two women in their fifties; one wore a permanent scowl, while the other had an expression that strongly suggested that someone just farted.  Not a ‘toot-fart,’ mind you; I’m talking a full fledged, wet nasty-maker.  She was arguing with Mark about her salad (garnished with chicken).

“It’s overdone,” she insisted to Mark, gesturing to the chicken strips on her salad.  I cringed, but Mark replied calmly,

“It’s been marinated, so it looks that way.”

“No, it’s overcooked.  There’s no dressing!  Take it back.”

Mark scooped up her plate and returned to the back.  I’m sure I missed most of the exchange, but what I heard after raised my eyebrows.

Fart-Sensing Lady furrowed her brow.  “He has no respect!” she exclaimed bitterly.

“He has no idea what he is doing,” agreed her companion soothingly.

“No respect.  Unbelievable.”

Though I couldn’t hear some of the exchange between Mark and his customers, I could tell from a distance that he wasn’t exactly giving them the finger, or arguing.  In fact, the tones of his voice seemed conciliatory.  I told Mom about what I heard, chuckling a little.  Part of it was in empathy for Mark, and part was in an uncomfortable embarrassment for the two pinched-looking ladies next to us.

When Mark returned to our table, my mother murmured softly, “those ladies are ruuuuude.”

“I know,” he shrugged.  “I had to kind of walk away, so it wouldn’t get ugly.”  I guffawed.

“I started writing notes about what they said,” I offered, motioning to my small pad and pen.  “Hell, I’m gonna blog about this.”

“Oh?” he asked. “I’d love to hear what they said.”

Mark went on to explain that he had worked the early shift and had been off for hours.  He’d been doing his sidework (stuff servers (oh yeah, he wasn’t a host – he was a server) do at the end of their shifts to keep the place organized and running, like folding napkins, taking care of condiments, cleaning up, etc.) when the rush began.  As Res was already understaffed and overwhelmed, he volunteered to help, which meant taking tables like mine and the Angry Women next to us – all off the clock.

“I was supposed to leave a while ago,” he said, almost sheepishly.

Res’ manager approached the table next to us, where Fart Sensing Lady continued to lament the state of her salad.  “It’s overdone!” she nearly howled.  “NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO EAT THIS.”  The manager offered soft words meant to ameliorate (which I couldn’t hear), and disappeared, ostensibly to find some way to make these women happy.  At this point, my pen was in hand, ready to write down the laundry list of complaints that were sure to ensue.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Here’s what I wrote:

“NO RESPECT.”

“The dressing is all wrong.”

“They didn’t spear this pepper right.” (Side note: I couldn’t hear the name of the veggie, but it sure as hell looked like a green pepper.)

“This has no taste!”

“They didn’t string the peapods.” (Side note: what?)

“No. Taste.”

“The chicken was overdone.  I sent it back, and it’s still overdone!”

“No one should eat this.”

I giggled my way through the exchange as I jotted down their desultory philippic.  They just seemed so angry.  Over food.  One lunch in a series of thousands.  It was bizarre.

Here’s the thing, and this is where I drag out my soapbox from underneath the dusty confines of my bed.  I wish people would understand that servers are people, doing a job.  A job that pays rent and mortgage.  Try this; substitute food for any other product like say, insurance or cable, and there’s really no difference.  Yet I’ve seen folks flip out at servers over minutia that wouldn’t phase them when discussing their life policies.

Your server is your friend.  I recommend treating them as such, if for no other reason that they’re doing a job for which you are compensating them.  If you want to break it down to bare bones, they want you to enjoy your meal and their service as part of the job.  But it’s not that simple.  Many servers enjoy meeting the people that occupy their tables.  Most of them want to have a good time with customers.  It’s part of the appeal of the occupation.

And the position means taking care of customers.  No one wants an unhappy customer.  I know there are exceptions out there (hell, I’ve met some), but to a typical server, a happy customer equals a better experience on his or her part.

If there is something that is not to your liking, most servers will do what they can to correct it.  Here’s the key – like I said, treat your server with respect.  If you’re unhappy about something, BE NICE.  It’s ok.  Explain rationally what you want to see changed, and most servers will be happy to fix it.  There’s no need to yell, threaten, disparage, etc.  Chances are, your server will find a way to please you.

Recognize that servers are people, too.  Sometimes they have bad days.  Sometimes they’re swamped.  Sometimes they can’t be at your table immediately.  It’s ok.  Just breathe.

You might ask why I, an internet blogger can so confidently offer this advice.  I was a server too, for over four years.  I’ve seen shit you can’t even imagine.  I’ve had lettuce thrown at me.  I’ve heard anti-semitic slurs thrown my way over a burger.  I’ve had comments about my nether regions casually uttered over a ceasar salad.  I’ve been grabbed.  I’ve had someone comment that my nail polish was ugly (my reply? “you’re lucky I didn’t put on the glitter polish this morning – you’d really hate that“).  Point is, I’ve been there.  I know what it’s like.  And I know exactly what it feels like to hear and feel all the above, and love my customers all the same.  I learned a lot about the human condition in my time waiting tables.  It’s made me a more patient and understanding individual.  And I am more than happy to cut whoever is bringing me food a little slack.  You should too.

I ran into Mark outside of Res and asked for a few comments about the Unhappy Women.

“My mother bartended,” he said philosophically.  “My whole family worked in the industry, so I’m used to it.  It’s my job to serve them.  I really like it.  I talked to some other folks here, who explained that serving isn’t demeaning.  I like taking care of people.  When my friends come over, they don’t leave the couch.  I take care of them, too.  It’s enjoyable.”

I think if I were in his shoes, having encountered a table like the Fart Sensing Lady, I wouldn’t have been so diplomatic.  But Mark continued,

“You have to ask yourself something,” he remarked, referring to his hard-to-please customers.  “You don’t know what kind of day they had.  Maybe they’ve just come from a funeral.  You have to take that in stride when dealing with them.”

At that point, I remembered the time I went to Dungaherins (a local restaurant/bar) after hearing a doctor tell my family that my grandfather wouldn’t last the next two days.  All I really wanted to do was bury my head in the booth cushions, sob, and drink obscene amounts of vodka.  I didn’t do any of the aforementioned acts, but I’m guessing maybe I wasn’t as nice to my server as I could have been.  So I get it.

The funny thing, is that Mark, who is my age, proffered these wise thoughts, while the women at his table, who easily had twenty years on him, claimed he “had no respect.”

Indeed.

***If you haven’t watched the film referenced above, I recommend it.  Anyway.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold

And by revenge on certain persons, I’m talking about all you publishers in 2010 who thought ducks in bonnets were en vogue, suckas. Let’s get some Lady Gaga, Ziggy Stardust,  and Iggy Pop into this, yes? No no, there’s no real revenge, here. But well, read on. I’m proud of how far we’ve come. Ch-ch-check it out.

In part of our effort here at mystaycation.com to find better DIY projects, we’ve taken to the needle.

I mean the embroidery needle.

I used to cross stitch when I was thirteen or so.  My fingers moved fairly deftly with thread, and I happily bedecked various textiles with silly Beatles’ lyrics.  I even moved on to needlepoint in college, creating a pillow embellished with violets for my mother.  Of course, I knew nothing about blocking (a process that ensures that the canvass or medium is stretched into the right shape, as it shifts with each pull of the needle), so Mom received a misshapen throw that she’s spent the last ten years desperately trying to hide beneath a knitted afghan without insulting me.  It’s a delicate balance.  It’s amusing to watch.  She has the leaf/petal/blanket ratio down to a science.  Mom’s always been a sweet supporter of my crafting habit.

I hadn’t thought much about needle arts since the days of the flower bedecked pillow and the early morning hours spent stitching it while watching MASH reruns in my Boston apartment.  To this day I still think of Alan Alda when regarding threaders.

Still, some twist of fate recently introduced me to Ms. Jenny Hart, embroidery guru of the 21st century.  Her postmodern, funky designs took the bonnet bedecked ducks we see so often on table cloths and tossed ‘em back into the 1800’s where they belong.  Have you ever seen a duck in a bonnet?  Have you even ever tried to put a bonnet on a duck?  That cannot work out well.  There’d be much…pecking, I’d assume. I bet ducks are vicious.

When I was sixteen, I was followed by a group of ducks along a dirt road for about half a mile (this was in the country, and yes, this happened).  None of them wore bonnets, though I suspect they were about to jump me for the peanut butter crackers in my pocket.  There was nary a ruffle on these avian waddlers.  No one likes bonnets.  I freakin’ hate bonnets. I’d rather get a home perm than wear a bonnet (ooh, that’s bad – I’m still living down that perm I gave myself when I was 20 after my seventh shot of tequila).

So yes, I was thrilled to see a set of embroidery designs devoid of ducks, bonnets, baskets, and other forms of country kitsch.  I was smitten with Hart’s patterns, for their slight Vegas-meets-riot grrl flavor.  I’d never embroidered (think freestyle cross stitch with more room for error) before, but it seemed fun.  And well, if it was good enough for my Great-Nana Grace, it sure as hell was worth a shot on my end.

My first project was a tea towel for my best friend.  Cat deserved a tea towel worthy of her name, so I purchased Hart’s funky kitty pattern and went to work.  The result was pretty damn impressive, if you ask me.  Sadly, I forgot to take a photo before I gave the towel as a gift.  Oh yeah, here’s my downfall – I almost never keep a work I’ve created.  They go to friends and family.  I get so much more out of handing it over and seeing the expression on the recipient’s face than I would keeping my efforts to myself.  To this day I’ve only kept one tea towel for myself.

Next was an apron for one of the matriarchs in my family.  I went with a Hula design, and embellished with the occasional sequin.

Embroidery Gwen Feldman. Pattern Jenny Hart of Sublime Stitching.

I think she dug it.  I hope so.  Who couldn’t fall in love with a blue haired hula chick doing her thang between a couple of palm trees?  Pass me the pineapple daiquiri, pal.

My mother turned 29 (so she says) last January, and as a birthday gift I promised to embroider a couple tea towels.  I couldn’t deliver on the day because I needed a consult with the birthday gal to figure out what she’d want on her towels.    Mom went with a critter friendly theme.  With some sketching, I planned out her tea towels.  One of them looked like below, along with various acoutrements that made the piece complete – what I like best is the navy-tattoo-inspired bluebirds adorning her piece:

Embroidery - Gwen Feldman. Pattern - Jenny Hart, via Sublime Stitching.

What I love about Jenny Hart’s company is that it’s based in our zeitgeist.  Jenny gets the fact that not all of us are into country kitsch, or shabby chic, or whatever terms are used by designers today to mask a half-assed effort to stay current. Some of us have a little funk, a bit ‘o style, and we want that reflected that in our work.  After all, does a gazebo bedecked in flowers scream who I am?  No.  Not that that kind of thing is always necessary.  It’s not.  But anyone armed with a needle wants to inject a bit of their own selves into it, and well, I’m anti-duck.  Let’s add a couple skulls, a guitar, a pinup babe, and (oh, dare I ask?) a zombie, and we’re rolling.

Hart has worked her magic.  Finally I can humbly provide my friends with the gifts they deserve.  After my mother’s critter towel is finished, I’ll be preparing a piece for a guitar playing pal of mine (and maybe something just as nice for his wonderful girlfriend).  Maybe I’ll whip up something nerd-related for my fellow Staycation Lab inhabitant.

Until then, I’ll leave you with what was a work in progress (it’s now done, but I lack any decent pics of the finished product).  When I found out that Cat got into veterinary school (which, by the way, is super hard) at Cornell (!), I had to grab a tote bag (to carry her text books!) and make it totally hers:

Patterns copy - Jenny Hart. Work - Gwen Feldman

Ignore that it’s rumpled.  Oh, and yes, this design is critter-friendly, but what can you expect with a future vet?  This woman is going to be caring for MY fur-babies, and I want to remind her just where her interests lie.  I keeed.  She’ll be great, and I want her to know how much confidence we all have in her.  She’s a superstar in my eyes.  I adore her.

*wipes annoying moisture from eye*  What was I saying?  Guh!  Go!  You!  Go out, check out Jenny Hart, grab some canvas and thread and try your hand at embroidering coolness!  Go!  I command thee!

Total Eclipse of Teh Awesome

Chances are that you’ve seen this once or twice, as pretty much everyone loves this video. Still, the two friends I had visiting from out of town this weekend hadn’t seen it, and I totally love it, so I figured it’s worth posting here. It’s always good for a repeat viewing or eight.

OH, TED

So, yeah. There’s a TED event here in Boston.

Brandon wants in. Like, he wants in enough to fill out an application.

An application?

I like the idea of TED. I dig the meeting of the overgrown minds. I’d love to attend, but I’m not really into the practice of weeding out attendants via applications.  What is this, undergrad?  I can’t help it; it rubs me the wrong way.  It’s informative, right?  Can’t we do this in a first-come-first-served system?  Or a lottery?  Can’t it be like a Justin Bieber concert (I honestly wouldn’t know, I know nothing of the kid, but apparently he’s the big thing with our 4 year olds, 12 year olds, and embryos)?

Brandon was hard at work on his TED application this evening, and I have to admit that I was annoyed.  I can’t help that it rubs me the wrong way.  I figured the best protest was to fill out my own TED application.  And so I did as follows:

Name:  Guenevere Fexxxman, Esq.
Company: Ladies of the Urban Butterflies’ Net
Position: Short in stature, long in joie de vivre

I am passionate about: I am passionate about how awesome I am.  I am exothermic; I send liquids into a boil with my simple presence.  Marvel Comics heroes bother me constantly about my preternatural jumping and spelling abilities (I dare you to challenge me to spell ‘triskaidekaphobia’ when I am off guard).  Animals love me.  Senior citizens are always asking me to change their light bulbs, and Betty White is constantly on my case, begging me to drop a comedic gem for her next appearance on Saturday Night Live.

An Idea Worth Spreading:

How Do You Eat?

I eat with my eyes.  And then my hands.  And then my tongue.  Later, the enzymes in my tummy take over, and then my small intestine extracts the nutrients I need to interpret my Elvis portends.  Later, my large intestine removes the water that will bathe my somatic cells.  The rest moves lower and you can get the idea.

What are a few URLs that can help us learn a little more about you?

www.dnaancestry.com
mystaycation.com
fark.com
gizmodo.com
failbooking.com
bastards.org
thedailyshow.com

Have you ever attended a TED or TEDx event in the past? If so, which event(s)?

No.  My afro-hair-comb conventions have precluded my attendance to previous TED events (what?  you think a short Jewish girl can’t avoid a ‘fro?)  Still, I’d love to share the TED love with my faithful haiku followers in Chinatown.  Let me be the next prophet of TED awesomeness, please.

Now you may be saying that Miss Spyrit won’t get invited to TED.  Though I admit I’d love to go, this was sort of me saying, ‘your application policy sucks.’  I don’t expect to get invited.  But I hope I gave the admission gods-or-whatever a decent enough laugh to see that maybe things at TED are a little stuffy, yes?

Refrigerator.

I lost

The folks at the mystaycation.com lab had a contest tonight, to see who could register a domain name the fastest. Of course, I forgot my Go Daddy password so…

I’d like to congratulate B. on aquiring the site – www.gargamelsloads.com. Enjoy it, sucker.

RCN – Really Craptacular Nuisance

I just finished a leaf on the tea towel I am embroidering as a gift.  Not news, except for the fact that I picked up my needle and floss to pass the time while an imdb page was loading.  After a good few minutes, I gave up and hit reload.  Three times.  A lot of effort just to divine what year Weird Science came out.

My router isn’t the culprit, and neither is my wireless connection (I’m plugged in).  Instead, I have to point a finger at what has easily been the worst internet and cable service company I’ve ever worked with – RCN.  Tomorrow the relationship between us is severed; I’m counting the hours until Comcast arrives and I can blow a loud, wet raspberry in RCN’s direction.

I’m not a stranger to Comcast.  We used their cable and internet services for well over a year in 2007 and 2008.  They raised our rates significantly, and were unwilling to offer us any sort of alternative package to ease the strain on our wallets.  We turned to RCN in a last ditch effort.

Like most relationships, there was a honeymoon period.   I didn’t notice a slowdown in net speed, and the remote control that came with our cable modem seemed more intuitive than Comcast’s (I accidentally erased a slew of recorded programs over time due to being an idiot with Comcast’s remote).  Most importantly, the price was right at around $91.00 per month.  We here at mystaycation.com were a happy bunch.

Soon though, our agreeable union with our cable company began to unravel.  What I first noticed was that the revolving 25 or so free on-demand movies Comcast boasted were gone.  RCN offered three, under the Independent Film Channel’s on-demand station.  We sucked it up.  Scrolling the channel listings and DVR menu was slow.  We shrugged and flipped on.

Internet speed occasionally slowed to a crawl.  I felt the first twinges of annoyance.  What really bothered me though, was the inability for the cable box to perform the simplest tasks.  There’s a button on most remotes with which I am sure you are familiar; the “last” button.  Simply put, press it, and it returns users to the last station they viewed.  This never worked.  It always flipped back a few stations in the viewing history, instead of to the most immediate one.

Often when a scheduled recording was near, a pop up warning would appear on the screen; “recording about to begin.  Press ‘C’ to cancel.”  Recordings take priority over viewed channels, and the cable box would switch to the recorded program.  So say, on a night like tonight when I was enjoying a documentary about the plague and didn’t feel like catching a Family Guy re-run, I’d select “cancel.”  The caution pop up would disappear, but the box would still switch to the canceled recording and commit it to the DVR.

At first I thought human error was a factor.  Maybe we were hitting the wrong buttons?  It wasn’t a constant error.  Still, over time, and working to be acutely aware of each button selected on the remote, we realized the cable box was at fault.  This problem would be particularly annoying if we had paused a program a couple times and were behind in the broadcast.  Having our cable modem randomly switch channels would lose large segments of the show we wanted to watch.  Sometimes the desired program would be over by the time we managed to return to it.

What really got me riled up was that the cable box would stop recording scheduled programs all together.  Sure, missing Pawn Stars isn’t a huge loss, but it’s the principle of the damn thing.  The principle, man.

Our breaking point came when two small pieces of paper arrived at our flat.  One was from Comcast, promising a year lock on a monthly rate of $89.00, with free access to HBO and Starz should we come back.  The other was a bill from RCN.  Our rates had jumped by thirty dollars.  Until now, what bound us to RCN was the low impact it had on our pockets.  This was gone.

And with that, my breakup with RCN began.  Comcast has been called.  I’ve hated our current company for a while, anyway.  I expect to hand RCN a cardboard box full of its stuff and take my key back tomorrow.  So long.

Is internet access this important?  Yes.  Is television?  No, but I bristle at paying premium price for sub-par service.  That, my friends, is important.

America, I Feel You

This is not a personal blog by any means, but part of the reason for its origin is my own kind of special horror I experienced last year, watching the economy tank.  Part of seeing the good though, is trying to channel the scrappy ingenuity we all have, and that’s another reason why this blog was published (next entry is about our newest DIY venture; embroidery, which I stopped practicing in 1993, but I’ve got some funky designs up my sleeve, so we’ll see – hula girls, anyone?).

Me, I’ve come off a lengthy time on the dole after being laid off from my job at an Allston design firm.  If you haven’t guessed from the previous entry, I’ma workin’ for the U.S. Census Bureau.  Which brings me to my next two points.

As a recruiter, it’s my job to help staff the troops that will hit the streets come spring to make this decennial’s Census an awesome one.  It’s my job to be out there too, telling pretty much anyone that I see that if they need a job, Uncle Sam is ready and willing to hook them up.  You might see me or someone just like me giving a talk at your church, posting flyers near Ben and Jerry’s, or pretty much doing whatever it takes to spread the word.  If you take us up on it, you’ll see me and my kind passing out sharpened pencils and government exams as you embark on the beginning of the hiring process (don’t let the test intimidate you – ask to practice!).  If you’re over 18 and fit the general requirements, I want YOU.  Yes, you.  This is all about our community, natch.

Credit: U.S. Census Bureau

The above is my job, and I’d say it anyway, but I believe in this.  My work isn’t the easiest, but I’ve started to fall a little in love with it.  It’s the single most inclusive thing I’ve done, and especially after today I feel pretty connected to my city and its residents.  I left work this evening feeling good.

I have to be careful about protecting the privacy of the people with whom I interact, so I’ll say what I can but I must apologize if I sound vague.  I’ve met a ton of people from all parts of my community.  I’ve spoken with Ivy League doctorates, spiritual leaders, single moms, veterans, college students, hipsters and geeks, teachers, skilled laborers; pretty much everyone.  I love the fact that I can offer them a job.  I love that I can tell them that the pay isn’t just fair – it’s great (yes, the wages rock).  I love telling them that the hours are flexible.  What I love best is letting others know that while things might just plain suck right now, there is opportunity out there.  And it’s thrilling to know I can help make that happen.  So while yes, it’s my job to recruit for the U.S. Census, it means something to me.  It’s activism.

Guys, if the above doesn’t move you to check out Census work, I don’t know what will.  But I do mean it.  If times are tight right now, try it.  You can dial the national office at 1-866-861-2010.  If you live in Boston, you can always contact me right here and I’ll walk you through it.  To reach the Suffolk County office you can always call 617-848-3260, too.

I was always pretty infatuated with my field of study in college (anthropology).  One thing I’ve loved best is the stories I get to hear from well, everyone.  I like tucking each tale in the back of my head and digging it up later like some rich archaeological find.  I still think about the people I’ve interviewed in the past with affection.

So far, what floors me is that the stories I’ve heard in the field doing RA (recruiting) work are all the same.  The ex waitress who was laid off last February (no, no such person exists – she’s an amalgam of some of the people with whom I’ve spoken – I really can’t use any specifics), has the same recent history as the out of work ER doctor (again, not a real person here), and both of their tales aren’t really much different from my own.  This giant economic mess has been equal opportunity in a sense, stretching across all societal strata.  I’m here in the thick of it.  I want to hear the stories.

I want to hear them because I can empathize.  I get it.  I think it makes us all feel a little better when we can see that our economic woes aren’t ones that we need to hold close to our chests.  We’re all going through it, to some extent.  And even these last few days have served as testament to that.

In short; America, I feel you.  Keep it coming.

(Please note that the above are my own thoughts about working for the Census.  It is in no way associated with official U.S. Census Bureau outreach content.)

Don’t Go Far!

Stay tuned! More Staycation product testing scheduled in the lab tonight – reviews on the way!

Review: EOS Balm

Photo Credit: EvolutionOfSmooth.com

Chapped lips is a condition that afflicts many; for most it’s a seasonal inconvenience.  Winter, with its chill and dry air, is mortal enemy to delicate skin.  Lips do not naturally produce their own oil (no no, acne-phobes, oil is an essential ingredient for healthy skin, no matter the type – I’ll actually get to an oil cleansing regimen later).  Without any barrier to Jack Frost’s wind and bite, lips are prone to becoming dry, flaking messes when Daylight Saving ends.

Of course, then there are people like me. If you’re similarly afflicted, there’s no need to say anymore.  But to the majority, I’ll describe.

I’ve had chronically chapped lips, no matter what the season, always.  Really, always.  When I was a child my mother would sneak into my room at night and slather my lips in Vaseline.  It didn’t work.  My lips peeled.  They cracked.  They bled.

They still do.  I can’t wear lipstick (though that’s ok as I feel I look clownish with it) because it highlights my malaise.  During the day, parts flake off, leaving odd, negative spaces in my lips.  I have a big pout too, so it draws attention.

I saw a dermatologist recently, begging for some relief from the bleeding and pain.  She deemed me doomed, as with my sensitive skin and allergies, I am meant to suffer.  I refuse to believe this.  Thus I’ve begun my own experiment with alternatives.

My newest venture into the world of lip treatment has had me face to face with EOS’s lip balm.  The web site declares that this oddly shaped egg of balm is “packed with antioxidant-rich vitamin E, soothing shea butter and jojoba oil (-) eos keeps lips moist, soft and sensationally smooth.”  That’s nice and all, but let’s go over it, piece by piece.

A Staycation Staple:

The packaging is truly innovative.   Rubbery and shaped like a future victim of omelet demise, you can be sure you’ll be able to dig it out of your purse by feel alone.

It does moisturize.

It makes a cute desk accessory, if you’re into that.

A lippy punch – there is more balm here than in the average Chap Stick container.

A Staycation “SO NO WAY:”

It may not be enough for those of us with an actual medical lip chap problem.

I worry what will happen when the balm is down to 50% – I won’t be able to simply slide it on my lips using the applicator, and I don’t enjoy sticking my fingers into goop just to smear it on my smile.

This product claims to be, “95% organic, 100% natural.”  At first read, that sentence looks great.  But when you consider how standards for what is “natural” and “organic” vary and how those percentages could possibly play out under actual scientific equipment, it’s hard to put blind faith into advertising claims.

Thoughts

On the surface this balm seems great.  Though I’ve had to apply it hourly (which is par), the “summer fruit” scent is refreshing (like a tropical gum), and I think I’ve noticed it sinking into my lips fairly well.

However, I can already tell that it’s strictly a “day balm;” were I to apply this at night, I’d still wake up a victim of my “condition” in the morning.  Day wear is fine, but I can still feel that my lips are bound to relapse if I’m a moment late in moisturizing.  No one wants to be a slave to the stick; myself included.  The relief is nice, but the knowledge that the chappy wolves are hungry, gnawing and merely at bay is not comforting.

For people like me burdened with a thirst no average balm can slake, it’s a mediocre product.  Still, as I don’t see ads addressing our condition along side of Viagra and Valtrex spots, I’m guessing we’re in the minority.  For the average seasonal lip discomfort, I do think this works.  I can at least try to stand behind a product that attempts to go green, and does a decent job on this exceptionally tough customer.

I think for the most of ya’s, you’ll like it.  Recommended.