My experimentation with face creams continues, but we have a winner in the what-cream-to-put-on-your-feet-before-you-put-on-socks competition: Vaseline. The stuff is dynamite. I used both the baby version and the cocoa butter version but they’re basically identical: thick goop that seals the moisture into your feet and softens calluses.
If you’re antsy about the petroleum part, I have two runners up. Continue reading
6 PM Tuesday: So I went out to buy Cetaphil and Oil of Olay at Sam’s Club because Cheap R Us. Then I looked at the Oil of Olay prices and had a heart attack right there in that dingy aisle. That stuff is priced like kitchen cabinetry. What do they put in moisturizer these days, the blood of virgins? But I bought it anyway because I have blog posts to write. Moisturizer, exfoliating cleanser pads, and some other Olay cleanser. I am keeping an open mind, but I got the Cetaphil, too, because I know that’s a classic (my daughter used to swear by it, haven’t asked her lately) and it’s very reasonably priced. But this Olay stuff better be good.
1 AM Wednesday: Okay, okay, fine. Maybe it was worth the money. Continue reading
So something interesting (to me) has happened this week. Because I knew I was going to be blogging this site–must support Sister Krissie–I started looking at things as Post Topics. I do this all the time on Argh, but I try to keep this kind of personal stuff away from there since it turns into a whine. No whining on Argh. Well, not any more. So instead of looking at my bathroom full of stuff and thinking, “I have to do something about this some day” and repressing memories of my mother saying, “Jennifer, you have to pay attention to your appearnce,” I looked at it and thought, “Re-Fab posts” and sorted out all the drawers and boxes, threw out anything that was too old or that I knew I didn’t like, and stacked what was left around the bathroom sink. Continue reading
I’ve always had terrible skin. Bad acne until I gave birth at twenty-five, scarring, big bags under my eyes, awful. Of course, I did have a great personality, but you know how that is. So I basically ignored my face since I had enough hell to deal with in the first forty years of my life. But when I was forty-one, I decided to make another change in my life (I’m good with change), and I started to write fiction and I quit my teaching job (loved the kids, didn’t like the hours or the authority stuff) and my life got much, much better. By the time I was fifty, I was pretty happy, but the toll those first forty awful years had taken was etched all over my face. So I went to a plastic surgeon. Continue reading