WTF Monday?

Yup, you read that right. Because I couldn’t think of anything wittier, WTF Monday it is. 

I already have my WTF Wednesdays post planned for this coming week, but I absolutely couldn’t wait for the following week to share a review with ya’ll. So, you get two WTF posts this week. Do you feel special? 

My boyfriend went out of town for the weekend, so I pulled out all the stops. I slept in the middle of the bed. I ordered in from all of the places he isn’t too keen on. I left my bra, gossip magazines, and girl products positively everywhere.

I also did a face mask. 

I don’t know why I felt the need to do this when he was gone (I mean, it could be that every time I do one, he acts like I’m a ghost and I’ve frightened him clean out of his shorts), but it just felt like a girl-on-her-own-for-the-weekend thing to do. 

So, I’m sure you’ve seen the videos and testimonials for the Shills black mask that’s supposed to be so magical that many don’t even recognize themselves after. 

No? 

You know. The one that’s supposed to pull off a layer of skin to reveal the real you underneath. 

Still no? 

The one that pulls out black heads, showing a close up view of the pretties, and it’s oddly satisfying to watch. It’s disgusting, but you instantly have to do it. 

Yup. That one. 

So, I’m totally not the type to jump on the bandwagon and buy every product that’s featured in videos that Facebook, so helpfully, pops into my feed. 

But, my direct deposit had just dropped and I was feeling like a baller. 


Source

This video:

Is the real reason I spent $15 whole dollars on a face mask. I want to know this woman. I want to be her best friend. Mostly, I wanted a mask that would remove my mustache!

Full disclosure: When I first saw this video, I was sitting on the toilet. I was full-on ugly-cry-laughing. My boyfriend knocked on the door to see if I was OK, as I’m sure I sounded like a dying seal. When I shared the video on Facebook, I mentioned this and my next door neighbor responded, “So, that’s what that noise was!” 

Dead. 

Gosh, I sure know how to do a preamble, don’t I? Let’s get to the actual review now. 

It took more than a week to get the mask (after ordering it on Amazon Prime), but lucky for me, I got it just in time for Girl Weekend. 

To prep, I washed my face with really warm water to open up my, already Grand Canyon-sized, pores. 

I used one of my makeup brushes, just like the pros, and applied the mask pretty thinly. Perhaps, this was because the tube is pretty dang small, and I could have easily used the whole thing on my giant face. That’d be a pretty expensive one-time-use mask, if you ask me. Also, there are zero instructions on how to apply it. 


Once it had dried completely, I was pretty giddy in anticipation of seeing all of my nasty black heads and bad choices being ripped out of my face. 

I started from the bottom, just like I’d seen countless times. It didn’t hurt at all. I was hoping all of my chin hairs would be pulled out, much like the rooting up of trees during deforestation. Nope. Those assholes stayed firmly rooted in place. 

As I started to pull my way up my cheek, it felt like it was pulling pretty good, but when I looked, there were maybe three black heads. Three.

I don’t even want to get started on my upper lip. I was so hopeful, yet it was so anticlimactic. While utterly disappointed, I was enlightened to what it surely feels like being that dude who can never seem to score, no matter how close he gets. Just disappointing. 

Also, IT DID NOT PULL OUT MY MUSTACHE. WTF. 

I guess you have to have one of those non-mustaches that are just baby hairs to qualify for hair removal.  

When I got to my nose, I got excited. Surely, there’s enough nastiness to be had there that I’ll have a major success. No such luck. It barely pulled up anything.  

At this point, I’m pretty damn mad. What a freaking waste of $15 that could have gotten me three days worth of Starbucks.

As I neared my eyes, they watered and snot promptly started rolling down my face – I finally felt the pain everyone goes on about. 

It was terrible. 

Excruciating.

I realized it was pulling out hairs-the baby ones that don’t count around my eyes. 

What.in.the.actual.eff.

So, now it decides to actually work. 

Watch me be the only one to grow full-on, thick, black hairs around my eyes now that I’ve messed with the baby hair that once peacefully, invisibly existed there. We all know what happens when you mess with those baby hairs

Also, it didn’t all come off in one nice, clean mask. I spent ages picking tiny pieces off until I just gave up. 

When I stepped back to take a look at the mess I had made of my face, it was pretty clear that I had failed at the black mask fad. 

I’m calling my face mask ‘stache the 360 Degree John Waters. 

Just wait and see, I will grow facial hair on my entire face*. I will either have to spend a fortune on hair removal or I’ll have to resort to joining the circus as the female version of Lionel the Lion-Faced Man. 

It maybe would have been worth it had more than three blackheads been removed. 

Next. 

*I edited and filtered the shit out of my face. You’re welcome. 

Flashback Friday: Where My Hairy Ladies At?

For this week’s #fbf, I am re-posting An Ode to Hairy Women. Since last week was about my hair woes, I thought I would keep the ball rolling with hairy tales. This one is pretty gnarly. You have been warned.

Courtesy of Buzzfeed via Pinterest

Except this isn’t an actual ode. It’s more like a dedication, but the word ‘ode’ sounded so much more interesting. I can’t write poetry in any form, but I can write one hell of a dedication to hairy women, because I have a lot of experience with unwanted body hair. I would call myself a Purple Heart recipient veteran of the War on Body Hair, but I’m still in the trenches, fighting.

Before I go any further, if you’re a man…a man who happens to be disillusioned about women, in regards to them being similar to hairless Sphynx cats, stop reading now. If you’re brave, be warned. I am about to rock your world, in a really, really bad way. If you care to remain in blissful ignorance, go read literally anything else. 

My first experience with unwanted body hair happened in the bathtub at my grandmother’s cabin, the summer before 4th grade. Pretending I was a mermaid grew boring, and I suddenly felt compelled to look at my armpits, and good thing I did. I looked like a chia pet. It was terrifying. My mother introduced me to the razor that day. I didn’t know yet that that single instrument would be the bane of my entire existence. Why didn’t my boy cousins grow armpit hair? It was so unfair.

Soon after the dreaded pit hair, came loads of leg hair. I mean, loads. I had hairier legs than my dad (I’m not sure that’s saying much, though. Last we counted, he had, literally, three precious hairs left). My mom started buying razors in bulk at Costco. She also bought a lot of band aids. I had still not mastered the art of not bleeding to death during shaving. I looked like a 10 year-old cutter.

Next came the worst decision of my life. Do you ever look back on an event in your life, regardless of how many decades ago it was, and still cringe, like the pain of bad decisions is still a fresh wound? I still feel this bad decision, and if I were ever able to go back in time to change one thing it would be this. Not getting to go back and change how awful my first kiss was. Or, change farting in class the first day of freshmen year. No. I would go back and grab the razor out of my stupid, stupid hand the day I decided it would be smart to shave the baby hairs growing below my belly button. I had a smooth, beautiful, hairless belly for precisely one day. The next day my stomach looked like Robin William’s shoulders. I cried harder for the loss of my womanly belly than when my hamster, Rascal, died. It was traumatic. 

During my formative years, I discovered Nair. The day I discovered that a product could literally melt my mustache away was one of the best of my life. That is, until I failed to read the directions properly. I left that nasty shit on for 10 minutes longer than is suggested (I mean, the box specifically states to, “Under no circumstance leave on longer than 10 minutes, unless you want to melt your lips off, dumbass”). My mom actually let me stay home from school, because no one in the house could stand looking at me longer than a few seconds before dissolving into a big pile of ugly laughing. “Fuck-You-I-Hate-My-Life” pretty much said it all. After this incident my mom hid her Nair, and just a whiff of that noxious chemical would send me reeling.

During college, I struggled with additional unwanted hair. As if a hairy belly button, man legs, and a Burt Reynolds ‘stache wasn’t bad enough, I discovered I had hair sprouting on my chin. The day I found my new unwanted friends was the same day I had a blind date planned, because that’s how being me goes. I asked my best friend to pluck those deceiving bastards. After she plucked the few I had seen, she started in below my chin. I said, “Wait, what’re you doing? Are there more?” She just said, “Um”. In a state of utter panic, I asked how many more. She said, “Well, most of them are white, so we won’t have to pluck them. So…if I had to guess, 25?” I died a little inside that day.

 

Courtesy of YouTube via Pinterest

This will be me one day. I think she’s seriously adorable. I’m serious. I want to hug her. 

After the panic of that recent discovery, I resorted to accepting the fact that my life would now revolve around waxing trips to the salon. Because I have sensitive skin, I always looked like I had a sunburn in the shape of Middle-Aged Man. So, of course, the guy I was dating called me, in a panic, right after my monthly waxing appointment. His car had broken down and he was stranded. I literally had a red mustache and beard, but he was hot, so I had to go get him. I should have just called that one a loss, because tying a shirt around the bottom half of your face, because, “it was cold”, looks crazy. Eventually, because he wasn’t an imbecile, he put two and two together and discovered I had waxed my face. I just dumped him. It was better than knowing he knew

Presently, I am struggling with how to shave my man arms without getting razor burn. Do you know what razor burn on your arms looks like? It looks like Please Don’t Sit By Me. It looks like a fucking disease.

The second I’m a millionaire, I’m getting full-body electrolysis. Ladies Who Get It, am I right? Is that not the exact same thing you would do? Of course it is.

So, this isn’t really a dedication either, more of a really sad, true tale, that is dedicated to the Ladies Who Get It. To the Ladies Who Don’t Get It, you aren’t part of the club, so there (don’t get your panties in a twist, you’re already part of the Non-Manly Woman Club, so go be hairless, and let us hairy ladies have this).

Well, I gotta go. My 5 o’clock shadow is already coming in, and my boyfriend still doesn’t know I shave more than him. Shhhhh. 

 

I found this on Pinterest years ago, and it still makes me laugh

Really though…

Spanx You Very Much

Ugh, Monday again. Didn’t we just have Monday last week?

If you are feeling like you can hardly bring yourself to get out of bed, or the thought of expending the energy it takes to bring your coffee cup to your lips makes you wish it was, at  the very least, Tuesday, you might need a little boost. A boost in the form of a good, hearty belly laugh. Check out my latest post on Shopper Lottie. I can guarantee that it will at least make you chuckle. Also, don’t forget to let me know if I forgot anything in the comments over at SL.

Spanx A Lot

This Is Elko 

I just got home from visiting Elko after nearly five years since I fled. I left Elko after a very nasty, unexpected, but much-needed breakup.  It had taken the almost four years that I lived there to grow to love the place. For the first few months I lived in Elko, I ate my sadness through the entire McDonald’s menu (because that’s all I found acceptable to eat). Every moment my brain was free to recall that I was permanently situated in a tiny cow town in Nevada, I was depressed. I devised every possible flight plan to get myself out of my living hell while I double fisted Oreos and everything ever made by the Keebler Elves. It took months for me to finally accept that if I wanted to see a movie, I would have to sit on a rickety, bodily fluid-soaked chair in their ancient theater. Whenever I got the opportunity to make it back home, I spent long hours wandering the posh isles of Target, lamenting how Elko was too ass backward to ever understand how beautiful a Target would be up on the hill instead of the nasty Kmart. What I didn’t realize until I looked up, out of my KFC Bucket of Shame, was that Elko was more than a Target. More than a comfortable movie seat. More than what you see at first glance. Before I knew it, I had established a very comfortable, happy life in Elko, enjoying the beauty that can be found when you open your heart and clear your mind of any preconceived notions. 

I was going to list the things that I love about Elko, but instead, I will just leave you with the following pictures. A few of you asked, about my previous post, “What is Elko?” Well, this is Elko. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 
 
 
 
 
 
A lot the first pics are actually of Lamoille and Lamoille Canyon, but those places still mean Elko to me.   

Pedicure Etiquette

Today I went to get my hooves polished. It occurred to me during the pedicure that there ought to be a list of things to do and not do when you go for a pedicure. Touching someone else’s feet is almost an intimate thing, and like when you are readying for a passionate night of lovin’, it is always a good idea to do some prepping beforehand. Thus, my list of Pedicure Etiquette was born.

Do:

  1. Shave your legs the day prior (it is misinformation to shave the day of a pedicure-unless you want to look like you have the plague the next day. Fresh skin and salt or sugar scrub don’t mix).
  2. Shave your legs at least a week beforehand. No one wants to rub lotion into your leg-fro.
  3. Perhaps do a little pruning before your appointment. Whipping out 3 inch-long toe nails is just dangerous for everyone involved.
  4. Maybe shave your toes. Pretty mint and gold polish on Burt-Reynolds-toenails is the epitome of an oxymoron.

Don’t:

  1. Stare blindly, in massage ecstasy, at the pedicurist while they are gently massaging between your toes. It brings to mind the line, “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.” Just no.
  2. Sit spread eagle. I have never had to sit down wind, so I am just assuming when I say- it has the potential to be unpleasant.
  3. Wear leggings with a hole in the crotch, because, it shouldn’t be obvious that your legs aren’t the only thing you are letting go au naturel.
  4. Eat a burrito beforehand.

Really, I just feel bad for my pedicurist, because I never follow these rules. I just want to apologize now to whoever has the distinct pleasure of working with my old man ankles for feet. I really am truly sorry. I would say I feel your pain, but feet are nasty, and I would never do what you do. You are all basically saints.

dry hooves

I’ve been trying to put lotion on them more often. Can you tell?

Online Magazine Writer-Say What?!

Hello Readers! I have some exciting news- I will be a contributing blogger for an online magazine! The magazine is UK-based and called, Shopper Lottie. It’s a fab online source for all things beauty, entertainment, humor, and lifestyle. 

I am so, so excited, and feeling quite honored. The opportunities I’ve been given as of late are beyond even my wildest dreams. I keep wondering when I’ll wake up. I hope never! 

My first post for Shopper Lottie is up and ready for viewing! You can find it here: 

Why My Boobs Are Not My Besties

Can I Add This to My Resume?

I am so excited to announce that I have been given the opportunity to write for a local magazine. Never did I think that this would be an opportunity available to me. Sure, in my most wildest dreams, did I wonder, but never did I let it settle in my conscious as something that could be a real possibility. Yet, here I am, announcing this wonderful news.

The magazine is called Bliss Babe, and is a women’s health, beauty, and fitness publication.

You might all be wondering what Fatty McCupcakes could possibly have to do with a fitness, beauty, and health magazine. I mean, have you seen me? Have you read my posts about my baked goods addiction? Have you witnessed my epic yoga failure? Apparently, a lot of women relate to my struggles. Apparently, all women struggle with diet, fitness, and feeling beautiful. They are not just my struggles, they are our struggles.

Now, I need your help. The creator has mentioned that it is possible that some of my existing blog posts could be published in the magazine. With that, I need to know which ones would be the best to be featured in an actual magazine *EEEK*.

Below are three possible categories I could be writing about, with links to blog posts falling under that category. If you are new to following me, or missed some of these, and you need something to do, well…I would be forever grateful if you could check these out. At the end of this post are links to 3 different surveys (I have to upgrade, as in pay to have more than 1 question per survey, so um, no. Sorry).

Beauty

Lipstick

My Hairy Life

An Ode to Hairy Women

Health

Why You Gotta Be Like That, Carbs?

Be Cool, Alright?

Fat Clap

Free Donut Day

Get Out the Way, Bitch

Fitness

Whip My Ass Ass

Yoga Farts

21 Minute Survival Challenge

Below, you can find the links to the surveys. If it weren’t for all of the people who read the crazy crap I write, this would not be happening! I would be honored to use your suggestions for what should be featured in the magazine. Thank you all so very much.

Beauty Blog Post Survey

Health Blog Post Survey

Fitness Blog Post Survey

Thank you’s and CUPCAKES!

Awkward Moment #3

That awkward moment when you come face to face with your fat foe at the hair salon. Your hair stylist can’t put the cape on quick enough. 

I know I have extra fat in the way my pants groan when I squeeze them on, and when I’m asked how far along I am by complete strangers. I get it. I know. 

The absolute worst reminder you’re fat is when in the seated position in front of a mirror. Maybe I’m out of practice with sitting in front of mirrors, but it’s always a huge surprise when I sit in the hot seat at the salon. I guess I forget the extent at which I’m fat. My thought process, when faced with this fabulous reminder, usually goes something like this: 

Before leaving for the salon:

I need to wear something that sucks all of my fat in, but is also flowy. Something that doesn’t cling to every crevice and stretch mark. It also has to be something I don’t care too much about, in case I get dye on it. Do I have something like that? No, of course I don’t, you fool. If I did, all of my fat problems would be solved. 

I guess it’s the leggings I yank up to my boobs, a layering tank, and a moo moo. It’s stylish, it has chevron print *sigh*

At the salon, upon sitting in the hot seat: 

Just don’t look, the cape is coming soon. Just don’t look. 

Jesus. 

I looked. 

How is it possible my body spreads out like Jabba the Hutt upon sitting? Where is all of this fat when I’m standing? It must go where my boobs jet off to when I lay on my back. Backstabbing, bitch body. 

Where is the damn cape that hides all of this? Where is the cape? Where is it? The cape! Gah. I can’t avert my eyes anymore. Put.On.The.Cape. 

Oh, here it comes. It’s like a long-lost Blanket of Denial. It feels good. It feels right.

The entire time my hair is getting done, I forget what is under the cape.

 I look fabulous in a capeI wonder if I could start a new fashion trend. Fellow fat ladies would love me. I could call it “The Cape of Denial”. It would be very forward and en vogue. 

When my hair is done: 

My hair says, “I’m sexy. I’m unstoppable. I’m fucking fierce”. My body says, “I like long walks to the refrigerator and I’ve given up”. My hair is gorg. At least I have my hair.

That’s usually how I self-soothe, the “At least” thought pattern. At least I can still see my vagina. At least I have pretty eyes. At least I usually know how to dress my fat. At least.

The struggle.