This is just the best thing that has happened to my face today. Potate. That’s all.



Doritos Orange Vs. Paper White

I’m a (non proud) member of the adult acne club. Zits, pimples, and blackheads have been camping out on my face since the mid nineties. This year I’ll be celebrating the big, dirty-30 and – I’m over it! Where is my magazine airbrushed skin? #bullshit

Rewind ten years. I’m an ice skating princess performing shows on cruise ships. I’m under the spotlight. I’m expected to be perfect and beautiful and so – the art of face painting falls in my lap. Face painting – as in makeup. The way I started (and still) apply my makeup is much like an artist armed with a paintbrush and some goop. (my face, of course, being the canvas.) I have a genuine adoration for the art of applying makeup. It’s therapeutic for me. It’s painted on confidence. It’s a shield; a mask. It covers my insecurities. I can zest my face up with some color. I can paint on the face that matches the person within. Makeup makes me feel pretty – I’m gonna be shallow and just own that comment, because for me – it’s the truth. I would be one hellova great celeb – because I’m not usually caught dead without something on my face. “Stars Without Makeup” wouldn’t ever get a shot of me. But! There are times where it’s exhausting. I can’t hug somebody without worrying about smearing my face on their shirt. I don’t like when my husband touches my face – (one of life’s greatest pleasures!) – because I don’t want him to “mess my face up”. And snooze? What’s a snooze? I have to get up! I have to apply my face! There’s no room for error for me in my morning routine. I’m not the wake up, fluff my hair, put-on-some-jeans-and-go girl. I’m just not. But here’s the thing – I. ENVY. THAT. GIRL. I want to be fresh faced. I want to feel beautiful without all the cake batter. I want to have the choice – to wear, or not wear, the make ups.

So – about a month ago I got a sunburn. Sunburns always do wonders for my skin. They zap the zits right off my face. So – I had a little confidence. Kat even professed her lesbian feelings for me when she saw me rocking the bare face – and my confidence levels SOARED. I thought – maybe it’s happening! Maybe I can rock the bare face. Maybe – if I just stop wearing makeup, my face will HEAL. I could truly become the wakeup-and-go girl.

BUT THEN: I went to work – confident, bare faced … and my boss told me that I looked sick. I’m not kidding … exact words, “Kitty. Are you okay? You look sick”. And like the sun zapped my zits, that comment zapped my self-secure high. I wilted like a flower in a sauna.

Three inches of makeup have covered my face since the detrimental, “You look sick.” comment.

Yesterday I scrubbed off my spray tan (oh shit! I am WHITE you guys. WHITE. LIKE. PAPER.) I decided to give my body a day to breathe. As it turns out, my foundation is the same Doritos-orange color as my spray tan – I was left with no choice but to go today, foundation free. I spotted on concealer, skipped on the bronzer, and layered on the mascara. For me, this is the most natural of my looks.

My darling husband made a point to tell me that he thought I looked “beautiful” as I was heading out. “This is my favorite of your makeups! You look young and fresh!” God love him for that! When I got to the office, a friend told me that I looked really pretty. She asked what was different. Zoom! Confidence level back up. Kitty is purring. Life is good.

AND THEN. My boss came to me and said “Are you okay? You look sick. You look pale.” – I said “Well, I am pale. I scrubbed off my spray tan” {insert uncomfortable chuckle here} The she said, “No, I mean – it’s not that. You just look ill.”

You guys. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO GET FROM THIS? My boss is not an asshole. She is not trying to hurt my feelings. It’s not that. But apparently when I venture into the world with a fresh face – to some I look young, and to her I look sick.

I’m depressed. Somebody take me to Sephora …

#upset #crying #spraytanningtonight #allthemakeuptomorrow #nashvilledermatologistswhereareyou #pitypartyofone


Ooooh, Doritos perfection.

Ooooh, Doritos perfection.

Vrooooom Vroom!

In honor of this fantastic new game Kitty and I created I figured I’d share this lil gem with you people. I like to keep my friends grounded. I mean…someone has to! All of my friends are so dern pretty. I feel its my job to make sure they keep it real. Comparing them to inanimate objects and furry critters seems like a really fun way to do so! Eddie Cibrian eat your heart out! Enjoy!!  – Kat


Personality Traits of an Ugly Face

My new favorite game is playing “personality traits of our ugly faces”.

Kat and I send each other Snapchats, videos, and photos of one another on the daily. (What, you don’t do that with your bestie?) The images are usually of us contorting our faces into the most unattractive shapes. Double chins. Toothy grins. Wonky eyes. I mean, we’re beautiful beasts in these photos. Kat once told me that one of my photos looked like a PT Cruiser. Okay? I’m just trying to let you know that we are skilled in being suuuuuuper fug.

This morning she sent me a snapchat. I did my damndest to screen cap that pic – but I missed it. We then had this exchange:

Kitty: Oh em gee, oh em gee. What was that face? I tried to capture it! It’s impressive! And terrifying! The girl in that picture stalks the New Kids on the Block, has never had the sex, and is capable of murder.

Kat: I can make ALLLL the ugly faces. I practice while I curl my hair. Oh! And I bet she smells like Carmex too.

And thus, a game was born. This is going to be so much fun. I promise to post an ugly pic soon, with a caption of the face’s personality traits. Play it with your friends. And goodness – send us some of your ugliest faces – it might make us feel better about ours?!


The Things That Make Me Tick, Tock.

You guys, the silliest things get me all worked up and excited.

On May 10th – I went and saw the Father John Misty concert at Marathon Motor Works. I’m gonna sum up the experience by saying that I basically fell in love with this Father John character. He was out of control, and totally in control. Dim the lights, put a foggy glazey glow around him, and play music while I run towards him in a field – slow-mo style. LOVE. It was love.

Anyway – I have gushed over this experience to anybody and everybody that knows me. I’ve actually been asked to NOT talk about the show. Something about going overboard?

And then today, a link was posted on FJM’s Twitter page with a link to an article. I read the article. Here’s the link, because I want YOU to read the article:


This author penned my experience so equisitely. He wrote what I experienced. It was the perfect article. And so – my “moved” emotions spread from Father John Misty, to the author of the article, Shane Ryan. Turns out, when you go on Twitter and search “Shane Ryan” a user comes up, who identifies as a Paste author – and – to my delight! – he offered up an email address. I wasted no time writing him the most disasterous letter of Father John Misty gushiness. In a week I will look back with humiliation at my decision to write a stranger, an accomplished writer at that! – a letter of my ridiculous enthusiasm over this musician. I. Am. Crazy.

But it was so fun! It was fun to see the show, it was fun to relive it in my mind, it was temporarily fun to write about my love affair with Father John Misty (uhem, yeah. I got all kinds of pathetic and wrote out the steamy scenes that I only wished would have taken place after the show!) … back to the topic … Shane Ryan, you stranger, you – you got me! On the level of the performance … you got me. And I love feeling connected like that. It was fun to write this stranger a letter of my affections for both his writing, and the subject of his writing.

I’m a fool. I think I’m done writing now. Oh em gee. I’m giddy over writing an email. See? Now you know why I label myself as a cat lady. #meow


Yeah, I'd do him. And I bet you would too! Le sigh.

Yeah, I’d do him. And I bet you would too! Le sigh.


Grumpy Gus

Here’s what’s up. It’s shark week in my pantaloons. I know that doesn’t paint a pretty picture, but whammo, there it is. If you’re male, and you notice my grumpy state and make mention of me and PMS, the great white from within will bite your head off. But, as a lady, I’m gonna just own it and say – it’s bad. It’s real, ruuuhl bad. Period Patsy.

I’m bloated. I want chocolate. I cry, cried, and will continue to cry – and I’m anggggggry. Nashville – you’ve been warned.

Hope this explains my absence. Keep an eye out for my fin. Dun nu dunnn nu!