Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

I’ve never had what you would call “problem skin”. Yes, there was always the random, monthly-ish, bump or two. Generally at an unfortunate time as though my innards knew my outtards were going to be all dressed up and looking spectacular for something that actually mattered. Be it a date, a meeting, a night out with the girls, whatever, I always knew what was lurking under my extra dab of concealer.

And while that was inconvenient, I considered myself lucky because I never had the kind of skin problems that Jessica Simpson and the non-Melrose Place Vanessa Williams claim to have had on the Proactiv commercials and the kind that we KNOW Cameron Diaz has because she feels the need to “keep it real” and leave her house without camouflage. Which I totally respect her right to do… but don’t bitch about it when you are front and center on “STARS! Just like US! With ZITS! And OILY T-ZONES!” (Britney Spears doesn’t count because a cheet-o crumb exfoliation is NOT a skin care regime.)

But recently my skin has been… misbehaving. My one or two little monthly spots have turned into four or five constant eruptions with another couple always lurking under the surface. It has become time for action. Apparently my “aging but oily” (fuck off skin care survey) skin has developed special needs that my previous skin care can no longer meet. Am so special…

So about 10 days ago I made the single largest investment in my skin care ever so far until I finally convince Patrick that BOTOX IS THE ANSWER! Also PEELS!!! And RESURFACING! After seeing my mother completely transform her skin using a ridiculously expensive line (as she bought ALL of it) called “Obagi” I decided that obviously that was the answer for me too. But look! They have one for adult acne! And it is less expensive(ish)! So I found it online and ordered it without the approval of my dermatologist (as I have no dermatologist. I also have no dentist, eye doctor, gynecologist or family doctor. I do, however, have a manicurist and a facialist. And my dog has a vet.) as the internet is a beautiful thing.

Apparently the one thing I failed to remember about my mother’s wonderful skin transformation was just how miserable she was with her peeling and dry skin throughout the process. Have I mentioned that I am a degree of scaly that no moisturizer can fix? And that my face actually HURTS. That my skin, my skin that previously laughed at makeup as it just slid right off in a matter of seconds is now flaking like Lindsay Lohan on a movie set?

The internet swears this is normal… And that I’m on the verge of a breakthrough… Please tell me your craziest beauty stories so I can feel normal about this…

Last night I dreamt that I owned a chocolate shop(pe?) in Paris and I worked alongside an adorably crazy (eccentric?) French lady in her 70’s with bright red hair and rhinestone glasses. The chocolates were all works of art, the walls were covered in whatever the customers (oddly all artists) wanted to paint on them using the racks and racks of paints we had everywhere and the bathroom had a broken lock and was completely covered with wine bottle labels. I woke up with the most intense craving for chocolate and an odd desire to call Patrick mon petite chou chou.

He will probably have me committed later this afternoon. We all knew it was only a matter of time.

Sweet dreams, indeed.

But in all honesty? If I were ever to move to Paris and open up a chocolate shop, it was exactly the kind of place where I like to think I would feel right at home. If you were to imagine a totally different life for yourself, what would you be doing?

And by the way… telling me your life is perfect and there is no where you would rather be is the same kind of cop out as signing that boy’s seventh grade yearbook “Have a Great Summer!” because you were too big of a chicken to tell him that you kind of just want to give yourself an extra spritz of Electric Youth (or Liz Claiborne from the red triangle bottle… you know… if it was within a few weeks of Christmas or your birthday and you still had some left) and plant one on him by his locker.

Things the New Job Pays For that Make Me Very Happy and For Which I am Very Grateful:

1. Gas
2. Patrick’s Car Insurance
3. Cell Phones (although I do mourn the loss of text messaging)
4. Trips to Vegas with many happy and delicious adult beverages
5. Health Insurance
6. Patrick’s Shiny New-ish Tahoe (which he has already wrecked, ran out of gas, AND fallen prey to a red-light camera)

Things My Mother Has Tried to Convince Me The New Job SHOULD Pay For If I Would Only Ask My Daddy and If I Don’t Then She Will Tell Him To Pay For Them Anyway Because He Just Should:

1. The $400 I spent at the Bellagio Spa
2. A gym membership
3. Someone to clean my house twice a month
4. Manicures (because of the TYPING! All that TYPING!)

I think I am working for the wrong parent…

I’m sitting in my hotel room. It is exactly 12:04 am in Las Vegas. Patrick handed me a one hundred dollar bill and told me that it was my call. But since I had spilled red wine on my FABULOUS white blouse at dinner I insisted on first coming upstairs and changing into what I told him was a “gambling outfit.”

Let’s just say that at this moment in time I’m in my hotel room in my underwear and I’ve just googled “blackjack strategies.”

Have I mentioned the return of drunk blogging?

And by now I’m trying to talk myself out of just putting on my pajamas, washing my face and climbing into bed. I’m tired. I’m slightly drunk. And I kind of suck at gambling. So I really and truly do want to just climb under the covers. The truth is that the only way to win is to not play in the first place. But the atmosphere down there… it’s so fun and festive! And for some unknown reason I imagine that I could still be good at it. This is ridiculous, I know. I have lost almost $400 this week. And Patrick still has no clue about the Bellagio Spa bill. That one will only be remedied with sexual favors.

Damn.

So I think I may have talked myself out of it. Sleep sounds so much better. But just so we can all be clear about something… I’m not making this choice out of maturity or intelligence.

I’m just too damn lazy to put a bra back on.

Hello friends. Ah… Vegas. There are so many potential ways to break this down to you. Let’s explore a few, shall we?

The Good: This afternoon. The spa. Facial, massage, manicure, pedicure, oh my. Las Vegas spas are… not cheap. Make no mistake about it, for what I spent today I should have been able to make my Manolos AND my Jimmy Choos each a little less lonely. But son of a bitch do I ever glow.

The Bad: You mean other than Patrick’s face when he realizes what I’ve spent and that I have (in his opinion) not ONE. TANGIBLE. THING. To show for it? Probably the fact that it is Wednesday afternoon and not once has my camera been unpacked. I am ashamed. And embarrassed. And all those appropriate things. But in lieu of pretty pictures, can I tell you how lovely I look?

The Ugly: One word… blackjack. Hey, here’s a good piece of advice. If you ever see me and my husband walking up to your blackjack table allow me to make a few suggestions. You could run. Far away. And if you don’t want to do that then just go ahead and wrap a nice pretty red bow around all your chips and hand them to the dealer. Or set them on fire. Maybe you could swallow them? As a pair, we are a pariah and a pox on gamblers and there is probably a long list of people I should apologize to but unless they wrote their names at the bottom of my vodka tonics? I didn’t get them…

The Good: Cirque du Soleil. Holy cats people. There are seriously no words. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

The Bad: The very close call I had with a wardrobe malfunction. Yes, I wore the dress that created scandalous cleavage to the MGM Grand. But somehow I got twisted just right in my seat when I sat down and things got… precarious. But I was on an AISLE! And these warrior people with their tattoo bodysuits and their bows and arrows kept running past me. I wasn’t about to get in their way. Thank goodness for my fear of a cool evening. Never has a wrap ever been so damn useful.

The Ugly: After the incredible amazingness that was Cirque du Soleil with all the swinging and the jumping and the very bendy people, what was Patrick the most impressed with and interested in? The hydraulics that ran the stage. Damn engineers. Why does that irritate me so much?

The Good: Oh so much food and alcohol. Am constantly stuffed and slightly drunk.

The Bad: See above.

The Ugly: See above, add gambling, mix well and serve on the rocks.

And on Friday? I shall hunt down Bobby Flay.