I've been going through a little . . . skid lately where I can't seem to get my make up and hair right. More like I can't get the area from the neck up to stop looking like shit. I look in the mirror and think, "Holy, what the fuck's wrong with my face?" Bags, sunken in eyes -- actually it looks like my eyes have shrunken to the size of dimes. Weird. I've been applying my best make-up techniques -- usual fail-safe tricks -- to make me look better. I'll blow dry my hair, an infrequent practice for me but one that leaves me feeling fiercely fabulousa. But it's all for nothin' lately. I keep applying more and more eyeliner and more and more blush, and after I startle myself with the hooker clown look, I use a baby wipe and take the whole mess off thinking that the natural look may work best right now. But hell no. The eyes are now pea-sized and my skin looks like I have jaundice or leprosy, and it's droopy! (Those aren't jowls, are they?) Then there's a case of the waddle developing on my neck that I may take scissors to . . . I can't even get lip gloss on right because I've put on too much self tanner in my state of panic. I have lips the color of fucking butternut squash. And my hair is two-toned. Is that Garnier Deep Golden Brown on top and Feria Chocolate Cherry on the bottom? I have the straightest hair known to man, but I can't even apply a baby bend to the end with a hot curling brush. Nor can I get it to stop looking like I have an A-line skirt made of straw on my head. I nearly wore a grocery bag over my head today. Seriously.
Later, a co-worker said he loved my hair down and styled. I almost punched him in the face. I don't need his patronizing.
I used to have this theory -- a theory I had forgotten about until this week -- that if my face and hair were looking hot, then my body would feel and look like shit. And conversely, if my body was looking good, my face and hair would be unworkable; a bag-it day. I don't think these were figments of my imagination either. I wasn't necessarily down in the dumps about myself when I felt this way. In fact, I would be feeling pretty good because one thing, at least, was looking great. But I'd be perplexed that I couldn't get the whole package rocking all at once. I always thought, "Feh, at least I got one thing going." And it was all about accentuating that. I'd razzle dazzle with the face even if the top button of my jeans was about to launch itself into the stratosphere. So, I'm thinking this recent problem with my face must mean that my body is getting more kick-ass as of late. That's what I'm going with anyway.
Actually, I think this really all comes down to the fact that I haven't been sleeping well, and I don't do well with little sleep -- nor does my face, obviously. Husband has been out of town this week and I've been staying up late and being weird; watching movies and reading and thinking too much. And my dog Lupe, who weighs less than 20lbs, is a goddamn bed hog. GOD. I tried to go to sleep early last night and instead I just laid there with my eyes closed trying to figure out if I could ride a mechanical bull. I spent hours doing this and worrying about my up coming high school reunion, but that's another story. I'm going to a western bar for my birthday in a couple weeks and I don't want to look like a complete moron up on the mechanical bull -- because I will HAVE to at least try it -- so, I'm convinced that if I can figure out, in my mind, how to move with it, then I'll be able to stay on better, or at least look good before I'm flung to the sawdust. I've been to this bar before and though I didn't ride said bull then, I watched a Bride-To-Be get up there and make a THOROUGH ass of herself. Firstly, she couldn't seem to control her body in the least; she was just grunting forward and flopping back without one iota of grace. Secondly, her tube top slipped down and we saw one pre-marital titty. I said to Husband,"Did we just see a titty?" He said, "Yup." She pulled up her top quickly and when she picked herself up from being immediately thrown off the bull, she asked her friends, "Did you guys see my boob?" And her friends sang in unison, "NNNOOOO!"
IN ANY EVENT, I gotta get some sleep before I’m forced to buy a SARS mask for my orange lips and a lone ranger mask a la R Kelly for my beady eyes, or I'll have to ride that bull with a bag on my head.
I love my husband because he’s kind of a dick. But he’s soft with me and his lip quivered at our wedding. I love my daughters. They’re brilliant and funny, and I’m here to kick down mountains that get in their way. I’m a vegan, and all is right in my world because of it. I can still beat the neighborhood in HORSE because I have a bad-ass set shot. Justice is served well through fair food, and scarcity would be a myth if we shared more, damn. Yo soy una mezcla which leaves me mixed up sometimes. My commute bike’s name is Loops and she’s my favorite kind of car. I wish I had written Chronicle of a Death Foretold. I’ve endured 54 hours of tattoo work. But above all, I fiercely believe in the underdog.
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" - Kerouac (As told to me by Marigoldie)