Two midde-aged, out of shape lafayette LA locals did a foot race to raise money for Puerto Rico Hurricane victims near Greenroom downtown on Vine St. All proceeds will go to Americares #teampbrous or #teamjro donations open until 10/24/2017.
Proceeds will go to Americares.
APRIL FOOLS! But here is a video about why I could never handle doing that.
It is not often that I cross the threshold of beauty salons, let alone get excited about being forced to have my hair and make up done for an event. This past weekend I stood in a wedding. For the most part, it was eerily calm, the bride was happy, and no one’s dress miraculously didn’t fit. However, there was one part of the day’s events that is still haunting me.
Have you ever heard of the art of airbrushing? Let me jog your memory.
You remember this classy form of painting now, right? The creations are limitless and the colors really pop in ways that even artists like Georgia O’keeffe just couldn’t quit grasp. Now, take this airbrushing concept and think about what it would be like if you could apply it to your face.
I am not teasing you, it can be done. I experienced it first hand.
You are probably scrambling to Google “airbrush make-up artists near me, ” but please continue to read before you book an appointment. This once in a lifetime opportunity to have your make-up painted on like a cheap, middle of the mall t-shirt is something for which you should really mentally prepare. I can tell you what to expect.
1. The artist who is going to be painting your eager canvass is going to be way prettier than you. Mostly because her make-up will be flawless, but she doesn’t “practice airbrushing on herself,” and she’s telling the truth. It’s just a thing artists do, it doesn’t say anything about the art form’s quality. No, not at all.
2. Unless you have frequently had your head sprayed with a fire extinguisher, prepare to slightly piss your pants when she applies her obnoxious tool to your face. It will happen more than once.
3. The artist will likely compliment your perfect eyebrows and then immediately proceed to “enhance” them for about ten minutes with what I deferred to be a Sharpie pen.
4. Airbrush make-up is literally a breathtaking art form, mostly when you forget to close your mouth and hold your breath during the application of Pumpkin Rot No. 3 to your “voluptuous” cheek bones.
5. Most artists like to save their work for a big reveal once they are completely finished, you know, as opposed to letting you see what they are doing until it’s too late to punt the airbrush gun and make a run for it.
In the end, you will most likely look similar to this:
Obviously, you know what needs to be done. Go dig up that old airbrush t-shirt with Tweety Bird on it and go get your face dyed like an Easter Egg. Until next time Flysters, I will be exfoliating my face with Comet.
I’ll finally be able to type (efficiently) again by Tuesday, and all will be right with the universe once more. Talk to me in the comments to help me get through my last days with this splint okay? Cool. Thanks.
I’m the type of person who has absolutely no problem dining alone, and in fact, I rather enjoy it. It’s like meditation in the form of stuffing your face. No one is there to judge you for ordering that entree sized appetizer and an actual entree. You don’t have to worry about taking a bite right at the very moment that your dining mate asks you a pressing question, resulting in a very long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether. And you also don’t have to play checkbook table hockey to decide who is going to pick up the tab.
Dining alone is sublime if you ask me, but along with everything else in the world, there are a few downsides. Let me fill you in.
1. People will feel sorry for you. Especially and extremely so if you are over fifty. I don’t know why, but when I see an older man or woman dining alone I want to slit my wrists.
2. Your waiter will unintentionally make you feel inadequate by slowly taking away all of the other silverware on the table and saying something like, “Is it just you tonight?”
3. Remember those people who are feeling sorry for you? You will eventually succumb to their stares and whip out your smart phone to pretend you are handling important business emails, when you are really seeing how bad you look with a double chin on Fat Booth before you order that appetizer disguised as an entree.
4. At this point, your waiter has now joined in on the pity party for you, so you will have to deal with taking a bite right at the very moment that he asks you a pressing question about your refill, resulting in a very long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether.
5. You have to pay. Unless the entire staring restaurant forms a sympathy pool to pay for your pathetic dinner.
So let me fix my first paragraph about dining alone: No one is there to judge you for ordering that entree sized appetizer and an actual entree … except yourself. You don’t have to worry about taking a bite right at the very moment that your dining mate asks you a pressing question, resulting in a long awkward pause while you try to chew at choking hazard speed to free your tongue for speaking, thus ruining the bite altogether… but your waiter will have the same bad timing. And you also don’t have to play checkbook table hockey to decide who is going to pick up the tab… but there is absolutely no chance you are getting a free meal.
So I meant it when I said that I enjoy dining alone. I enjoy dining alone in my living room while watching old episodes of The Office and secretly pining over Dwight. Don’t judge me.
Dining alone while reading this?! Let me give you more stuff to do on your smart phone so you don’t look so bored. Check out Not A Redhead on YouTube here.
I’m not really one to make rules for myself. I’m a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I’ll try almost anything once, and I rarely freak if a risk I take doesn’t end in my favor. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t certain standards by which I live. Let me explain.
I don’t let just anyone or anything into my bedroom. My bed is a cone of trust. You don’t get to enter it, especially with me, unless I know that you won’t betray me. It’s a Becca law that I have always honored.
This being said, something has happened to this law. I have broken it.
Today, I had somewhere to be. Today, I planned to get up early, shower, put on a nice pair of dress pants and a top that says “I’m important” and print out a crisp resume. Today, I went in search of part-time work.
I woke up promptly to my alarm. I only snoozed three times, which had me impressed with me already. Unfortunately, the rest went south quickly. Kind of like it did for that reptilian intruder Jack gobbled down with delight right in front of my face the other day. Cats, what are you going to do right? At least I didn’t have to touch it.
I rolled out of bed to head for the shower. I reached for my bedside lamp.
Click. Click, click. Shit, no spare light bulbs. Oh well.
As I sauntered into the bathroom ready to get my fresh and clean on, a similar instance occurred.
Click. Click, click. Shit, these light bulbs too? That’s a bizarre set of coincidental light bulb failures.
Why I didn’t immediately realize that the power was mysteriously out is beyond me. Brain putty. Regardless, I gathered three candles from the kitchen, lit them, and arranged them on the toilet tank before turning on the water. I’ll tell you this, showers by candlelight at 9 am can go one of two ways, and weirdly in my case, both ways at once. One outcome ends in you feeling very romantically appreciated by yourself. The other ends with you yanking back the shower curtain every thirty seconds assured that you will be inches away from the face of an intruder wearing an evil bunny mask with a crossbow aimed for your eyeball. I happened to experience both simultaneously, which was… confusing, terrifying and sexy all at once.
After surviving my emotional ping-pong match, I dried off and opened the window in my room for some natural light. Then, I reached for my blow dryer, plugged it in, and set forth confidently to blow dry my hair. Apparently, I needed to research how electricity works, so I towel dried my hair and fired up the lap top. Brain putty.
What is wrong with my internet? Is everything going to crap out on me today?
These were my legitimate thoughts as I stomped down the stairs to inspect the router. My brain putty sloshed against my skull as I discovered that routers too require an outlet. Who knew? Apparently I used to know.
I continued on attempting to groom myself in my current free prison, but you wouldn’t know it by the looks of my hair. Just as I was feeling smug for dressing myself using the necessities of a cave woman, I realized I was forgetting one thing. I needed to print my resume. Funny how The Office marathon that I engaged in the night before had failed to remind me I needed paper. But anyhow, I marched right up to my printer to find that there were just a few slivers of tree left in the tray. Score. Just as I plugged in the USB and searched for the print option, there it was again. Brain putty.
Moral: Outlets require electricity. If your power is out, so are your outlets. All of them. They won’t work. Not for your hair dryer, not for your router, and certainly not for your printer either. You’re welcome.