I would like to preface this post by clarifying that I have not taken this digital vow of silence to re-invent myself as a fucking beauty blogger. I haven’t written an article in nearly a decade mostly because I am at the point in my life where I am afraid to have my thoughts in written form. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen…
I am easing back into sharing more content because I am a real over achiever and so sick of listening to myself via audio (shout out to The Bitch Bible podcast) SO like the basic bitch dumbfuck I am #selflove I decided to share some skincare regimen because after a Botox consultation gone wrong (too risky so close to my wedding date) I have had to explore alternate pursuits to remove the fucking crevasses rivaling the Appalachian mountain trails on my forehead…
Like my flaming homosexual husband always says, “Don’t blame the artist, blame the canvas…” or as my favorite fire crotch housewife Caroline Manzo once said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig” (ehem Danielle Staub). Because I bankrupt myself last month buying a pink Gucci bomber jacket unconsciously at 4:18am that is both amazing and hideous at the same time, I have turned to alternative budget skincare products and developed a FAIL PROOF routine I had to share with my bitches.
Ice roll your fucking face (too many martinis = puffy).
Wash your fucking face.
Exfoliate your fucking face.
Steam your fucking face.
Put a mask on your fucking face.
Rinse your fucking face.
Tone your fucking face.
Moisturize your fucking face.
This is all pretty standard. The real crux of this post is not some stupid step by step (you’re smart enough to figure that out) it’s the products. Not to sound dramatic, I’d sell my future child for a facial steamer. It is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. My skin has never been better. The day you order this steamer is the first day of the rest of your life. Sometimes when I am feeling wild and fucking alive, I infuse my facial steamer with rose water or my toner and think that if Leo Dicaprio ever propositioned me for sex it would be solely because I’ve had a really amazing face steam… So just let that marinade.
I am in no way a product junkie. I refuse to spend excess money on products because I am both cynical AND Jewish and would rather buy clothes. Your face is your base! Find all the products I swear by CLICK HERE!
I have never felt this uncomfortable writing any post… ever. I have made it public knowledge that I am not a huge fan of exercise. I simply refuse to go to gym, wish I had the discipline for a small stint of anorexia and literally don’t trust people who say they LOVE to exercise. You know what I love? Eating without consequences.
Last week I got a call from my new PR Fairy Godmother, she prefers to remain anonymous probably because she is embarassed to be affiliated with me. She let me know that since I impulsively decided to change the name of my budding “brand” I would need to do a promotional photo shoot that was more theme appropriate for marketing purposes. I know most of you are probably rolling your eyes and gagging trying to keep your granola down. I know boo-fucking-hoo I have a photoshoot. My sentiments exactly. Despite being maybe the biggest ham of all time, photoshoots are my fucking nightmare. Not only do they force me to accept the fact that my face is not as symmetrical as I would hope and I am not nearly as photogenic as my mother has told me I am. My PR princess (you’re welcome) explained the more risque concept of the “campaign” #ew – then casually threw in that I may want to meet with a trainer to get in best shape possible for the photoshoot…which is basically her nice way of saying tighten your shit so we don’t have to pay extra for photo shop, so someone will want to manage you full time and we wont have to stuff you into the clothing like a sausage you FAT BITCH WHORE. Ummm, Baby doesn’t like when people tell her what to do. This is all way too much pressure. Branding? Marketing? EXERCISE? #wordsthatgivemeanxiety. Everyone knows I am a stress eater, what kind of sick joke is this?
After doing some serious soul searching I decided that if people were going to believe in me, I had to believe in myself and find the willpower within to try and follow some form of exercise regimen. Let me be clear I have ZERO intention of changing my diet and/or alcohol consumption. I have vowed to do light weightlifting in the mornings. Take the stairs instead of the elevator and maybe through in a few lunges while I wait in line for my 3 o’clock mocha frappucino. Yesterday I called up my favorite anorexic/workout-aholic friend who’s main food source is ice chips, diet coke, celery and a boiled chicken breast on cheat days to see what exercise regimen would work for me. “Are you seriously going to start exercise? Are you fucking high?” Well that is encouraging. “Try Tracy Anderson. She is the best, she does all the hottest skinny bitches in Hollywood. I went to her class a couple months ago and couldn’t move for days, you should definitely do the arm workout” Um… what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Clearly taking the hint I decided to find the arm workout online and give this shit a go. Because I am a giver with no boundaries or shame I decided to document the experience for your viewing pleasure and my personal shame.
I will be keeping a video journal of my unpaved road to fitness. Please help a bitch out and tweet/comment tips.