See what I did there? Did you see? Did you?
Let me preface this by saying I was inspired to write this post after reading Melanie Crutchfield’s How to Be Beautiful. If girls pooped I probably would have shat myself laughing when I read it. I’d award her with free underwear if that wasn’t a weird thing to do. If
I hadn’t given up Photoshop so quickly because I sucked at it my free Photoshop trial hadn’t expired, I too would use it to make my own funny image additions here on my blog.
My mother is and always was into fashion, beauty products, make-up, and stuff of similar categories. This is why I do not understand how I was so beauticiously challenged growing up. I don’t remember her ever teaching me how to do things like put on my make-up, shave my legs, or pluck my eyebrows. I don’t think this is because she didn’t want to or try to, I was just too stubborn to wait for her to decide that I was old enough. I can’t blame her. I know she just wanted to see me as young and innocent forever, but come on, I was walking around with so much blonde hair on my middle school gams that it looked like Cousin It was humping my leg.
Because of my impatience, and therefore, lack of instruction and proper guidance, I had one too many beauty fails as an awkward 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16-year-old girl.
For starters, I was initially too afraid to shave using an actual razor, so I resorted to Nair. If you like to bathe in acid you should try it. Nair should be illegal.
Once I conquered my fear of the razor, I became adversely razor-happy and went on a razor binge. It started out innocently enough. You see, my hair is naturally curly (had you fooled didn’t I?). This means I had what I call whispies (also known as fly-aways) framing my face. I had a ton of them, and I wanted them gone. So, what did I do? I shaved my fucking hair-line. When that worked out dreadfully, of course I didn’t hesitate to moved on to my eyebrows. I am still trying to grow them back to their full volume to this day. Read the rest of this entry
I know it is hard to believe, but occasionally I do enjoy doing girly things like getting my nails done. I’m sure my nail lady thinks I am boring because I never dare let acrylic anywhere near me, and I almost always get a neutral color job. I also absolutely won’t opt for shellac. My fingernails are nails for heaven’s sake, not hard wood floors.
Homely nails or not, the experience is anything but plain for me. I get approximately three hours to just sit and do nothing… except maybe explain why I don’t have a boyfriend to “Jenny” or fight off the tickle reflex that leaves me praying I won’t accidentally punt my pedicurist. I am physically incapable of doing so much nothing anywhere else.
There is something about beauty salons that make people itch to talk. It is usually the customers who gossip away while Jenny and the gang nod silently every so often to feign interest. This is the case for all employees at my nail salon except for one particular manicuring machine named Song. She is a talker. Not only does she talk, but she is actually quite the joker. She can find a punch line in any situation. Naturally, I adore her.
Just last week I was letting my feet
boil soak while waiting for my pedicurist to come give my feet dirty looks, when Song appeared and began working on the woman’s feet next to me. If you could call them feet. The particularly large woman was there for some relaxation with her two gal pals positioned in the chairs surrounding her. She was on her way to get married, and to add to the excitement, so were both of her friends. It turns out they were having a three-way-wedding, thus Song had three brides’ feet on her hands. Are you lost in extremities yet?
You would think Song would be a bit nervous given the task, and it didn’t help that the brides-to-be were nothing short of bossy, but miraculously she was on top of her game. She wasn’t missing a beat or a single hangnail for that matter. She even managed to successfully locate a “tangerine” colored nail polish at one of the bridezilla’s adamant requests. Meanwhile, I was busy debating whether or not I needed to translate my color request into a fruit name equivalent.
Song finished off her pedicure/comedy routine with a nice quip about not getting the grooms mixed up at the altar and sent the three walking traffic cones on their peachy way. With my feet freed and my toes looking exactly as they did when I arrived, I headed for the door. Before I left, I slipped Song a ten-dollar bill accompanied by a grin and a wink.
- Make a mint: our top two mint nail polishes (stylebakerybeauty.com)
- Indulgences (expatinistanbul.wordpress.com)
- Tangerine Love for Fall (chateauandbungalow.com)
OR, 5 Ways to Tell If You Are Adaptive and Awesome
You belong in one of these two categories, depending on your inherent optimism/pessimism, if you do any of the following:
1. Use your hair straightener to iron only the front of your shirt while it remains on your body. After all, it’s the only side people see anyway.
2. Sprinkle your house with multiple bowls of cat food and water in a decorative fashion to avoid having to worry about completing the task throughout the week. Soon, your cat can’t run away from you when you try to motorboat his belly. He will waddle slow enough for you to catch him. Two birds, one stone.
3. Your driver’s side window in your vehicle has not had roll down capabilities since some time in 2011. You enter the drive-thru backwards.
4. Instead of holding that heavy blow dryer over your head for twenty minutes, you turn on Willow Smith and whip your hair back and forth until it’s dry. Go green.
5. You write a “list” post and lure people in with a picture of a bulging cat belly. This is most certainly in the adaptive and awesome category. No debate here.
- lazy days (ohshecooks.com)
- Great tips on how to Make your hair straight using blow dryer (forallwomentoknow.blogspot.com)
- Lazy Cats (gaspodethedog.typepad.com)
Now that I have fully recovered from my Sketchers catastrophe, I have resumed training for the Color Run. I am braving this 5k at the end of November. Training is so much more difficult than the actual run. Obviously, there are no strangers cheering me on by throwing powdered rainbows on me while I slave on the treadmill. There also isn’t a celebration with beer waiting for me after I complete my reps on the weight machine. Who am I kidding. We all know there is beer waiting in my fridge, but that doesn’t change the fact that training just… sucks.
To make matters worse, I have come to the understanding that either the place is just plain old bad luck, or the employees at my gym are purposefully sabotaging me. If the latter is the case, it is probably just because they are jealous that they don’t have the balls to workout in men’s long jonhs. I also don’t sweat, which is neat. Read the rest of this entry
It seems like almost a decade ago that I made the naive decision to start smoking. Maybe this is because it actually was a decade ago. That means I have probably consumed approximately 35 some odd thousand “joes” as we dubbed them. How appalling.
I was a mere fifteen years old when I decided it was necessary that I begin smoking. It was actually a dual decision made by Jazzy and me. We would do it together. Jazzy and I both maybe 100 pounds each yet were utterly convinced we needed to lose weight. I blame this on our environment at the time. We were just emerging as principal dancers in the ballet company we belonged to, and if you look up ballerina in the dictionary it will read: person who feels the need to achieve perfection at all times.
We were perpetually unsatisfied with our bodies, which I eventually grew out of thankfully, but at the time we scrounged for anything that promised a quick fix towards emaciating ourselves. This lead to the smoking. We read somewhere back on AOL, in between getting kicked off of the dial-up, that nicotine boosts your metabolism. Thus, we ran with the idea like the stupid tweens that we were.
That 5-year-old, frail as it was stale, Virginia Slim that Jazzy had hidden from her mother when she was a concerned young tot, gave me the worst sensation I had ever felt, tasted and smelled in my entire life. Naturally, I had to have more. That is not to say that you immediately become overwhelmingly addicted to cigarettes after that first puff, but like I said, I was determined.
Fast forward to the present. I am a full believer in the notion that you mentally must be ready to quit and truly want to do so in order to succeed. Don’t quit just because it is more of a turn-off for your new boyfriend than the thought of Lady GaGa’s wiener. Don’t quit just because you want that same boyfriend’s mom to approve of you. Basically, don’t quit for the benefit of someone else. Quit because you are sick of it.
I’ve been sick of smoking for most of this year. Then, after two trips up north where they treat smokers in the same manner as I imagine they treated the witches of Salem, I was beyond sick of it. I began smoking less and less. I knew what time it was better than Flavor Flav and his army of clocks.
How would this be different from the other times I made the attempt but failed? This time, I refused to broadcast my goal to my friends and family. Here are some of the reasons why I didn’t, and why you shouldn’t (note: this goes for giving up anything unhealthy for you).
1. The majority of your affirmations and praise will come from others instead of yourself. Becoming your own cheerleader is the most important. The confidence you will have in yourself will be the most powerful, especially if that confidence is coming from no other sources.
2. Some of your still-smoking friends may tease you, taunt you or worse, ostracize you. They may feel just as uncomfortable smoking around you as you feel not smoking around them. If you don’t announce your decision at the front door, the pressure is off both sides.
3. Let’s say you become seduced by booze and light up. You will know you’ve slipped up, but no one will feel obligated to point it out.
4. If everyone is tracking your “progress” when those downfalls happen, you won’t have to deal with the added stress of feeling like everyone thinks you failed. That stress can lead to a full-blown smoking relapse. Because, who are you kidding, right?
5. Bottom line: This decision is about you, not everyone else.
In conclusion, I would like to announce that I am not quitting smoking. I just haven’t had a cigarette in a while.
- Learn to Quit Smoking with This Advice (answers.com)
- 80% of Cancer Patients Won’t Stop Doing This (belmarrahealth.com)
- How to Stop Smoking (answers.com)
- QuitMasters for smokers who want to quit (medicine.com.my)
Because I can see you getting green in the face hearing about Boston this and Boston that like I am an eleven year old gushing about how I want to marry Patrick Swayze (why did you leave me!), today’s post will not mention Beantown. Except for that last sentence.
Yesterday tried to break me. It tried hard. It pulled out every anvil and TNT labeled box it had and dropped them directly on top of my groggy little head. The only problem was that it didn’t quite kill me. I was as resilient as the never-dying cartoon characters, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t look and feel like complete roadkill. It all started with a lack of sleep due to a cold/sinus infection/lupus/cancer or whatever other illness the web’s symptom checkers told me I have.
Somewhere I read that riding in an airplane can make you more susceptible to sinus issues. Judging from the delightful time I had on my plane rides, and considering I feel like my ears are still popping, I think I’ve nailed the culprit. At least I don’t really have lupus. Read the rest of this entry
[Yes, I do this. More often than not. Soap and running water are overated.]
This post is not about the foul bachelor frog activities we all do but pretend we don’t. This post is actually about my dire, pathetic, irrational fear of frogs (before you laugh, this is a legitimate phobia). Only it’s not just frogs. Lizards and june bugs are in there too.
I used to live on the first floor of a pretty elaborate apartment complex. There were fields of grass and a fountain in the middle of each quad area. This meant that families of amphibious invaders set up shop right outside my door. It was froggy nirvana. Back then, I didn’t understand what grocery shopping was, so every time I needed a diet coke, I would have to journey to the center of the complex (by the pool… aka cesspool of toads). I lived in fear of becoming thirsty because of this. It seemed that the moment I stepped out of my door and started my trek to the coke machine, I was stepping in to a scene from the hunger games. So much running. Read the rest of this entry