Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: adulthood, dermatology, health, humor, life, lifestyle, skin cancer, summer, travel
For the first time in my life, I finally did something smart for my skin. After having to use chemo cream this winter and getting a melanoma site cut out of my shoulder at the same time, it has become clear that all of the fun I had in my younger years is coming back to bite me. Besides looking like a dried-up apple if I’m not chugging water and putting various toners, serums and moisturizers on my face, now I’m having to lop bits off. Let me tell you, melanoma bits are deep; that means layers of stitches and limited movement afterward. Plus, the scary factor.
After much convincing from Daughters 1 and 2, I finally decided to get a spray tan before going on our spring trip. I was going to trick my vanity into thinking I was already tan, so I would not feel compelled to roast in the sun like a delicious Costco rotisserie chicken.
It worked! For once I stayed in the shade, slathered on 50+ sunscreen and didn’t feel like a raw piece of chicken just out of the package.
Now, before you all jump on me and talk about chemicals and how they are just as bad as getting actual sun, recognize that I’m treating the immediate problem. As I always have, I’ll worry about the chemicals later.
A lot of my friends haven’t done a spray tan, either, and they had A LOT of questions. So, here’s how it went with all the glorious, undignified details:
I chose a local place for the first time, recommended by a lot of people, called NudeFX. Sounds like a strip club, but it was elegant and discreet. Before my appointment they talked with me by phone about how it would go and directed me to their website for how to prepare (LOTS of exfoliating and moisturizing). The day of the appointment we discussed an option that was $10 more for a clear type of spray for “mature skin” (i.e., lots of brown and white age spots). I opted for that since in addition to not accentuating the brown spots, it also is supposed to keep you from being orange.
When we got to the small room where this great event was to take place, there was a mat to stand on, a large fan thing that looked like a giant speaker that sucked the extra spray from the room, and a small table with disposable thongs, pasties and a hair cap. The thongs and pasties were optional – the hair cap is necessary. You can also just wear your underwear or a bathing suit or nothing at all. This being my first time, I opted for the thong and the pasties.
Yep – naked but for a fake thong, pasties and a haircap. I was a delight to the eyes, like someone’s OnlyFans vision of lunch lady porn.
Helpful Hint: For those of us who are hormonally challenged and wear a hormone patch near the groin, remember to take it off unless you’re fine with a perfect, stark white moon in orbit around your thong strap mark.
Helpful Hint: Don’t bother with the pasties. Hubby saw the result (ridiculously pale nipples on tan skin looks like a reversed fried egg) and busted out laughing.
Once you’re undressed, the technician comes in and begins to spray. There’s a lot of “lift that arm to here” and “turn this way” and so on as she basically holds what looks like a combination of paint sprayer and hair dryer. As she goes, she also takes a very soft makeup brush and ensures the spray is even, especially around your feet and hands to prevent those white gaps that make tanning look fake and cheesy.
Helpful Hint: Just check your dignity at the door – I am sure they have seen it ALL. And don’t get fooled by the cool pictures they have of great tans people have achieved. They’re all hot twenty-somethings. I happen to know that a lot of people get tan that don’t look like that, so RELAX. They don’t care at all, and I never felt a hint of judgment.
When you get home after the tan, you’re supposed to wear loose, flowy clothes to prevent rubs until the tan sets – apparently going commando is best. Knowing Hubby was going to be home, I did not take the commando option – I just wore the loose flowy clothes for 5 hours. For the first couple of hours nothing happened – I couldn’t even tell I’d done anything. But eventually it started to work, and it was subtle. After the 5 hours I rinsed off (no soap or shampoo allowed yet).
Helpful Hint: If you’re like me and can’t sit still, rack up some small in-house projects that need to be done, like those piles of laundry, cleaning out your fridge or whatever. You won’t want to go in public or get in your car.
The tan keeps developing overnight. By 8:00pm I started to freak out – I was looking like my usual summer tan, which was exactly what I was going for, but I didn’t know when it would stop.
And then I noticed the smell.
We were sitting on the couch watching TV when all of the sudden all I could smell was Fritos…or Cheetos. At first, I thought it was the dogs – they can get yeasty smelling in the winter. Dog paws are one of my favorite smells, which, according to the internet, is a yeast issue. Yeasty dog paws smell like Fritos. So, I grabbed Holly’s paw and sniffed – it wasn’t any more Frito-smelling than usual. And then, I zeroed in on where the smell was coming from.
It was me. I smelled like dog paws.
I made Hubby sniff my arm, which sparked a short debate on whether it was Fritos or Cheetos. Then I panic-called Daughter #1 who had spearheaded this project.
“Oh yeah, that’ll last about a day or two,” was her response. “It’ll mostly go away after you shower with soap and shampoo.”
I feel like that should have been communicated in advance.
The next morning, I was a little darker, but not a hint of orange, and the 3:00am pre-travel shower felt amazing. However, on the plane I was sandwiched between Hubby and some poor man who probably thought I’d had nothing but Fritos for the last six meals. I could smell it wafting up as I got warmer in the cramped middle seat.
So….was it worth it? ABSOLUTELY.
Bottom line, the tan lasted almost all week, with minimal streaking or fading. More importantly, I did manage to trick my vanity. I never felt like I needed to bake in the sun – I got plenty just hanging out (mostly in the shade), wearing hats and gobs of sunscreen.
I may not be able to tell my dermatologist to suck it (I still have 30+ years of damage to deal with), but I’m definitely going to put a damper on her vacation fund from now on.
Filed under: Food/Drink, mental health, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break, Travel | Tags: humor, Mexico, resort, self-care, spa, travel, vacation
Sitting here looking at the ice that is taking its sweet, sweet time melting (I’m so freaking over it), I started daydreaming about our pre-ice storm trip to Mexico…one we had been looking forward to for months so we could relax after a difficult and busy year. The resort was one of those all-inclusive resorts for couples, and we were ready for some down time.
You should know that when we first talked about this place, I told Hubby that if there was a cheesey, Las Vegas-style heart-shaped tub anywhere I was leaving. Rest assured, this was not Love Island. It was actually very classy and the service was excellent.
In fact, the resort guests in early January were mostly folks older than us and a few obvious honeymooners. God bless ’em – I’m sure they didn’t anticipate hanging out by the pool near Gerald, a former EVP of something nobody cares about and who is on his third wife. Gerald talks loudly into his phone on speaker mode. All afternoon, as Gerald and his wife mold themselves into their chairs, the staff dutifully bring a steady supply of gin and tonics for him, tequila and sodas for her. The talking gets louder as the gin and tonics kick in, but it was hard to tell how his wife felt about it because she’d had so much surgery or Botox nothing moved.
But I digress.
While we were there, we scheduled a couples massage for 4:00pm one afternoon. Of course, that was the day we met some fun people from Canada who were well-versed in the various rums and tequilas on offer at the swim-up bar. At 3:45, we remembered the massage, stopped at the restroom and sprinted to the spa.
The receptionist did a great job of hiding her disgust at what I am sure was a miasma of liquor coming off of us in waves. She escorted us into the changing rooms, and, after several tries, I got my wet bathing suit off, my feet into the slippers and the fluffy towel wrap thing on right side out. Eventually I met Hubby in the room for a two-part hour of relaxation: half back and neck massage, half facial.
It was great…until I had to pee half-way through.
We had just started the facial and I was doing the horizontal version of the pee-pee dance, when I finally gave in and told the very kind lady that I HAD to go. She laughed and removed whatever was covering my eyes, then helped me sit up and wrap myself in the towel. She marched me down a very long, peaceful hallway filled with light, palm trees, rocks and running water, all of which made the need even more urgent. I passed a couple of people but was on a mission, so just kept motoring for the bathroom.
As I entered the bathroom, I made a horrible mistake – I looked in the mirror.
Mrs. Doubtfire looked back at me. My face was covered in thick, white cream and my hair was sticking up like a crown all around my face.
I started laughing and barely made it into the stall.
It’s really hard to pee when you’re laughing.
When I finally came out, I avoided the mirror and high-tailed it back through the serene hallway and those few people walking silently about. This time I was aware of a few stares and possibly some disapproving glances.
In a few minutes I settled down and enjoyed the last of the session. But I did learn a few things that day:
- Don’t be Gerald (or his wife). People will silently hate you just a little bit.
- Don’t drink before or after a massage – the list of reasons why is as long as long as the hallway I had to traverse looking like a melted marshmallow.
- If you are wrapped in a robe and slippers and covered in face cream, do not—under any circumstances—look in a mirror unless you are emotionally prepared to meet your new identity as “Haunted Spa Ghost.”
- Serenity is fragile. It can be destroyed instantly by the sound of your own laughter echoing off stone walls while strangers silently judge your life choices.
- No matter how fancy the resort, how calming the music, or how skilled the masseuse… I will always find a way to turn relaxation into a minor public spectacle.
So, a belated happy New Year my friends, and make sure you schedule some time for self-care!
Filed under: Posts | Tags: Christmas, family, fiction, humor, life, Middle-Age, new year, sex
Happy post-holiday food and drink orgy – and welcome to a new year of ways I can embarrass myself (and sometimes my family). It’s been a long hiatus from this collection of stupid things I think about and do, but in the immortal words of Randy Quaid….I’m BAAAAACK!
Now many of you know I can be forgetful. I blame it on age; some in my house would say I have ADD and should stop calling the kettle black. Either way, this Christmas my memory played a trick on me of epic proportions.
A few weeks before Christmas, Hubby went on an on-line buying spree and accidentally kept sending things to Daughter #1’s (D1) house. So, he asked her to bring them up for Christmas, hoping against hope she wouldn’t open the one that had some female “enhancement cream.” (Now, before you start getting all red and judgmental, remember that we’re in our 50s and have been together for 35 years. Sometimes you have to shake things up.) D1 said she would. For the next three weeks Hubby festered and worried that she would open the package.
“Do you think she opened it?” he asked me at least once a week.
“No, she wouldn’t. She knows it’s for Christmas,” I would reply.
Meanwhile, said daughter called me as soon as it came and asked if she could wrap it up, along with the other things, and put them under the tree from Santa – and surprise her dad. Knowing that the girls and their very significant others would be there, I laughed and said yes. This Christmas was already super weird, so why not make it epic?
And then I instantly forgot about it.
The day finally came to open presents with the kids. The tree was beautiful, the fire was lit, and we were all taking turns opening our gifts (yes, we’re that kind of family). I reached for a small gift that was to me from Santa and opened it. Inside was a pretty pink tube of cream. Without thinking I sniffed it (peppermint) and proceeded to rub it all over my hands, thinking it was hand lotion. I glanced at D1 and she was looking at me with horror. Then she covered her mouth and started laughing. Hard.
It took a couple of seconds before it clicked.
Oh shit…it’s THE CREAM!!
I looked at my greasy hands and started laughing, too.
D1 had to explain what was so funny to everyone else. D2 was also horrified but somehow didn’t seem surprised. I don’t know if I just no longer shock her with how dumb I can be, or if she knew about it. Hubby was totally confused for a second and then just asked if it worked.
I never looked at the boys to see what their reactions were – but I’m pretty sure that was not on their holiday wish list.
Here’s the answers to a few FAQs I’ve received after sharing this story:
- No, it didn’t make my hands warm and tingly
- No, I haven’t tried it in its official capacity, mostly because I DON’T KNOW WHERE IT IS. But, I swear to God If the kids have taken it and are going to mail it to me again, that will start a war that I will win.
- Yes, we have updated the delivery address.
- No, I still haven’t found out what the boys think. I don’t want to know. But I can safely say they just got a peek into the level of crazy we are currently operating on.
So, happy New Year everyone! 2025 went out with a tingle…and rest assured, I’ll be ordering my Prevegen shortly.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: anxiety, apocalypse, comedy, humor, plague, survivor, UFOs
These days there is a lot of fear mongering, talk of anarchy and threats of various apocalypse scenarios. If you believe the social media “preppers,” the apocalypse is coming in the form of World War Three, a plague, or UFOs.
Or maybe the world is eventually going to be underwater.
Well, if any of those scenarios are on the horizon, I can rest easy because I’m not a survivor. Nor do I want to be.
I’ve seen enough Thunderdome movies to know that I wouldn’t make it past the first week.
Here are things I do NOT bring to the table:
Weapons or the skills to use them. I’m pretty sure my throwing axes will only protect me if my attacker is 10 feet away and standing still.
Medical knowledge or herb lore. Despite the fact that my family jokingly calls me “Dr. Libby,” I’m really just a fast Googler. As for the herb lore, if it’s a nuclear attack, you can’t eat what would be left. If we’re floating around an endless ocean because of climate change, seaweed will only do you so much good. That’s pretty much the extent of my ocean flora knowledge.
Mechanical ability. I can barely work a screwdriver, and IKEA instructions make me break out in hives. So no, I won’t be the person who’s fixing machines, jumping car batteries or siphoning gas to save the day.
Procreation. My body is no longer equipped to produce offspring, much less offspring that would adapt to a post-apocalyptic new world. I’m pretty much a post-apocalyptic recessive gene.
Here’s what I DO bring to the apocalypse:
Humor. If you can’t laugh at the situation, you’ll cry. So maybe I can keep some people from falling apart by making snarky observations. I’ll eventually become a court jester.
Documentation. I can write down what happened and how people survived. I’m told I’m good with dialogue when I write fiction. I will explain the weird lines on our (underwater) roads and strange phrases future archeologists uncover, like “Let’s Go Brandon” and “what’s your Roman Empire.”
Medical Assistant (certain conditions only). When it comes to radiation poisoning, I’m your girl. People throwing up doesn’t bother me at all. But, if there’s an attack with a respiratory component, I’m out. Snot makes me dry heave.
Medicinal Alcohol. My house could be a temporary source of medicinal antiseptic and anesthesia, given our current supply of bourbon. Until those supplies run out, we can all figure out how to make moonshine from ash, instead of actual crops.
Realistically, by the time the apocalypse happens, us non-survivors will probably already be assigned red Star Trek security shirts so we’ll be easy to identify. That way, others won’t waste time trying to save us when they could be building a desalinization machine out of seashells.
So if you’re a McGyver, a Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs, or someone who knows how to operate multiple vehicles, more power to you. You go all Thunderdome out there and keep the human race going. I’ll see you on the other side, wearing my shiny red sweater.
Filed under: Posts
This is a re-post of a blog I did over 10 years ago – and it’s still valid today. Enjoy!
Like many women, I have toyed with the idea of “getting some work done.” There are so many options available! You can inject things into your face to get rid of the wrinkles. You can make your lips fatter, your bottom rounder and your thighs skinnier. You can even take fat from one part of your body and put it somewhere else. But none of those things has ever really appealed to me. I have found a much cheaper way to make myself feel better about the toll time has taken on my face and body.
I heard a performance by Canadian poet Shane Koyczan, about bullying (you can watch it by following the link at the end of the post.) There were many phrases and ideas of his that resonated with me, but the one I want to share is…
“If you can’t find something beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”
So I did.
My new mirror isn’t anything special. I got it at the Dollar Store for, well, a dollar. It has a white plastic rim, and for the moment, doesn’t have any water or toothpaste splotches. The glass doesn’t really magnify anything, but it did show me some things in a much different light.
The crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of squinting at diamonds on turquoise seas and Virginia mountain sunrises, and from searching for the Daughters #1 & #2 as they shot a goal or cantered over a jump.
The bump on my nose that makes my glasses lopsided is a reminder of my love of sports, although playing soccer might not have been one of my better choices (I broke my nose by kicking the ball into my own face. Try it at home—I dare you). Running, jumping, kicking and throwing—what a way to celebrate the body I was given!
The wrinkles on my forehead are the marks of a mother who worries about her family—are they doing okay in school? Will we have enough money for college? Do I still make Hubby happy? It is a miracle to have those things to worry about. Why would I erase them?
Even the wrinkles on my upper lip are testimony to the years of clamping my mouth shut in twenty years of marriage. I finally learned that not every opinion needs to be voiced—even though mine is usually better.
The freckles and age spots on my hands come from hours of driving my children to and from school as we talked about our day, from driving across country with Hubby, and riding horses as often as I could. Sure, I could get them lasered off, but why? I don’t want to look like I never had any adventures.
My hips and stomach are no longer flat or small. They shifted and made room for two daughters. No, I don’t have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore—I have the body of a mother, of someone who has survived my babies’ colic, teething, first steps, tantrums, first day of school, and first dates.
None of this is to say I’ve totally accepted this body I’m living in. I still highlight my hair every two months to cover up the gray, and I struggle to fit into jeans that I probably shouldn’t. But when the mirror on the wall in my bathroom isn’t making me happy, I try to remember to get the other one out, the one that says “You’re beautiful because of those lines, and wrinkles and sagging parts. They are the result of living your life, of all the things that have made you who you are.”
The erosion of the walls of the Colorado River could have been viewed as a tragic invasion of pristine countryside—instead, we now see the Grand Canyon as a wonder of the world. Why can’t our bodies be the same?
Watch Shane’s performance here:
https://youtu.be/sa1iS1MqUy4?feature=shared
Subourbon Mom 