Beauty 1001: Satin Finish or The Real Me?


I’ve just scrubbed my face with a mini loofah and slathered copious layers of lotion on my skin.  I feel dried out, despite the forty ounces of cream I’ve applied at $100 a pop.  I mean dry; as in my skin feels like it’s been lying dormant in a crypt since the beginning of the pharaoh age.  I look in the mirror and I see bloodshot eyes with slate colored circles underneath, little webs of red lacy blood veins cover the apples of my cheeks, and tiny new wrinkles have been etched around my eyes with a mini chisel by efficient little Age Elves while I slept.

And of course, I need to leave the house, like ten minutes ago.  I need to take my pup for a walk.  “Toot Sweets”, as I affectionately call him, has been cooped up all day, and earlier, when I bent over to clean the bathroom floor, he actually tried to shove his squeaky toy… (never mind, different post.) The question is, do I really want to waste a half hour of my precious time putting on make-up for a 45 minute walk in a park where I will carry a lavender scented purple poop bag and likely see no one, unless I don’t wear makeup? Read more

meh. A Quest for Mojo


I recently lost my mojo.   I don’t know what else to call it but, as I’ve been devouring the contents of the Owning Pink website recently, I’ve decided that they are on to something BIG.  Mojo means different things to different people.  According to Owning Pink, for some, mojo is sexual, for some, mojo is being present in the now.  For me mojo is that inner glow, the one you often see on pregnant ladies.  Mojo is that smile inside of you that shows on the outside.  It’s that inner spark, that feeling of connection to everything and everyone around you.  It’s feeling truly alive.  When you’ve lost it, things feel gray and dingy and it’s as if that tinge of hope within has buried itself somewhere and is too busy licking its wounds to present itself.

After days of blah and meh, I wasn’t sure what to do and, damned if it isn’t superficial, I dashed to my black Beetle and raced to the salon.  Once there I hobbled up to the counter, my pasty skin stretched into a grimace, with hair that looked like the end of a Q-tip that’s been hanging out in the bottom of my travel case since a European vacation in 2004.  I asked for my stylist Nicolette.  The receptionist’s pink and tan glow hid what I imagined was her own grimace at my pallid state and said, “Have a seat, she’ll be right with you.”  As I looked around the salon I saw smiling faces, heard endless chatter, I saw hot pink highlights with streaks of robin egg blue, I saw people glowing, and not from some radioactive hair gel. Read more