The physiognomy of the teen.

I procured new goop that matches the colour of my skin last week. It’s not just a better match than the extra-tangy new formula MAC sent me, but better than the discontinued product I’d used since my 20s. It makes sense I’d find something better, as my complexion has changed after all this time: fewer bumps, but more grooves.

What else has changed? My beliefs, writing style, lifestyle, support system, eating habits, domain, and many more. Nearly every cell in my body has been replaced since I wrote my first blog post 25 years ago.

In case you missed it, I discuss popular sluts aka pluts:

Surely it served as an inspiration to one of the writers for Futurama as Popular Slut Club made an appearance in the 19th episode of season 6, which came out in 2011. (Thanks Jordi, for bringing this to my attention.) So, I’m taking credit for this.

In retrospect, those pluts were in all likelihood, not actual sluts. They were just trendy girls with chunky highlights in their hair who wore crop tops with belly chains. Was that supposed to signal their affinity for wanton fornication with a bevy of bodies? Or were they just the product of Y2K trends?

Designing and sewing my own clothes has been a long-standing aspiration of mine. I dream of the day I won’t need to scour the depths of the internet to find dated fashion items. Twenty-five years later, I still have no interest in wearing crop tops, belly chains, or white jeans, especially not white jeans.

I finally own a sewing machine, which I’ve spent the past two years using to make everything but clothing. Last month, I bought fabric for my future pants; two weeks ago, the pattern. I’ve been inching my way towards my long-time dream.

Unfolding that first 36″ x 48″ pattern printed on crepe paper almost defeated me. I laid it out on the floor of my Crafting Nook (formerly Pain Nook) and stood before it, thinking to myself, “How the devil am I going to fold it back up?”

There was a second folded-up piece of paper in the pattern envelope: I unfolded that one, too, trying to memorize the order of folds. Immediately after unfolding that second print-out, my memory reset. Now there were two large sheets of impossible-to-fold paper so thin I could see the fake wood grain of the lino floor through the layers.

I pulled out the roll of tracing paper I’d purchased a year ago to trace out the patterns in my size. Then, I cut out the traced pattern, which depleted my confidence for the week. Today, I intend to transfer the pattern onto the khaki muslin fabric I’d bought for the mock-up.

This feels like the most daunting endeavor I’ve undertaken. Unlike knitting, cross-stitching, or embroidering, there is a lot of prep work that must be done away from the comfort of the couch. It requires hours of labour before one knows whether their hard work will pay off.

But the garden?

My earthbending ways have been paying off.

My glorious patch of dirt has produced a bounty of radishes, butter lettuce, “Fast and Furious blend” lettuce and kale. The bare strip on the right is reserved for flowers.

Strawberries are underway in the planter boxes. Several people have warned me that while strawberries grow well, they disappear just as readily. Rats and raccoons are quick to harvest the berries as soon as they ripen. I’m considering stapling a dome of chicken wire over the planter boxes. The roomie and I would have to remove the staplers whenever we want to pick strawberries. A possible solution would be to cut flaps in the chicken wire and secure them with twist ties.

Are rats and raccoons crafty enough to figure out twist ties?

I’m glad the whole yard containing the garden is fenced in, otherwise deer would be trouble too.

I’m still reading Les Misérables: six weeks in, and I’m not halfway through. It’s a lot to ask of someone in 2025 to picture a story that takes place in 19th-century France. As Les Misérables was written in that period, the book is chock-full of dated terms I’d never read, like tocsin and espalier. I’d be lost without my e-reader, which allows me to tap on these strange words to summon their definition.

One day, lexiconographers shall make the word “plut” official, which will be my grandest achievement.