Nailed It!

Lately, I've been more than a little obsessed with nail art.  Anyone who knows me is aware of my natural artistic instincts, and I can honestly say I am truly at my happiest when I'm creating something--anything bordering on "art."  Well, what better place to express my creativity than the 10 tiny canvases permanently staged on the tips of my fingers?

Nail art is not really a new thing--it's been around for years.  In fact, my mom recently informed me that the painting of the odd nail out (or "accent nail" as the beauty industry now likes to call it) was something she once practiced on her own digits back in the 70s. Who woulda' thought?

Just the other day, my adorable, girly-girl niece, Tori, was studying my all-red manicure, and she asked, "Aunt Sassy, where's your accent nail?"  I must admit, it was one of the prouder moments of my aunt-hood.  You see, I had previously explained to her that the mismatched nail color on my ring finger served as my "accent nail," and I guess Tori was really paying attention that day because now every time my nails are all uniform, she questions the absence of the accent nail.

I love to paint my nails, and I typically do it on a biweekly basis.  Jeremy argues it's because I enjoy picking off the paint even more--I secretly do!  I am always trying new tricks and techniques because, lets' face it, plain nails in all the same color is just b-o-r-i-n-g.

There are all kinds of tools nowadays to help you achieve these various cool looks, too.  I've done everything from nail marbling, (which entails dropping various colors of nail polish into a cup of water, creating a swirl pattern and dipping your nails into it.)  See the YouTube video below, which is the one I first learned this technique from...





I have copied newsprint onto my nails, simply by swiping rubbing alcohol over my fingernail prior to pressing clippings of newspaper on the nail to transfer the image.  I have used various nail stickers and have even entered into the territory of freehand painting with a teeny-tiny nail brush.  Believe me, that takes time and practice!  Somehow, my right hand always comes out looking better than my left hand since I am a lefty after all.  Get tons of ideas simply by googling "nail art" on the Internet and via a search on Pinterest.  Next time you bust out the Sally Hansen and OPI polishes, try something daring and fun.  You never know--you just might discover your inner Picasso!


The images below are a couple of my personal faves done over the years.  Let me know your favorite tips, tricks and techniques. 

You can't go wrong with a wild, leopard-print look.

I've always had a serious love affair with zebra print!

Homemade Huaraches

Have you ever heard of such a thing as homemade huaraches?  As in--huarache sandals.  Well, neither had I until about a week ago.  Apparently, my dad has reached a new level of boredom in his retirement (or as he likes to call it, self-unemployment).

My father is truly one of the most creative and artistic people I have ever known; however, his exotic taste sometimes leads to handcrafted creations that border on ridiculousness.  He has never been one to follow the crowd, and he could care less what people think about him.  He most definitely marches to the beat of his own quirky drummer and has a unique sense of style.  I'll give you an example....

Enter an old pair of penny loafers and an Exacto knife.  Yes, my dad decided that his comfy, worn-in loafers were destined to be re-purposed into a pair of huarache sandals for summer.  Instead of shopping for a pair of men's sandals like a normal person, Dad busted out the Exacto knife and whittled away at the leather until his shoes resembled a loafer skeleton.  I call them "skele-toafers"...and trust me, they are hideous.

While it's one thing to lounge around the house in this monstrosity of a shoe, it's another to wear them out in public.  I was horrified when he showed up at a family barbecue to meet my boyfriend's parents sporting his penny skele-toafers.

As a shoe lover, I sometimes wonder how it's possible I could be a product of a man who makes his own sandals with an Exacto knife. Regardless of my objections, Dad wears those awful, homemade sandals with pride.  He says, "They're the only pair in Bartonville!"  Yes, Dad...and let's hope to God it stays that way.

Did you think I was joking??

Here they are in all their "glory"

  

Change in Perspective

What's my favorite restaurant in the whole wide world, you ask?  Why, it's Bob's Steak & Chop House, of course.  Had you asked me this very question about 29 or 30 years ago, however, I would have no doubt responded, "Chuck E. Cheese!"  It's amazing how time changes your perspective.  What I once valued as the ultimate dining experience now holds the appeal of eating cheese-covered cardboard, surrounded by bratty children screaming to be heard over the digital beeping and bells of video games and ski ball scoreboards.  No thank you--I'll pass!  But back in the day, there was no place on earth more exciting than Chuck E. Cheese.

I loved jumping around in the brightly colored balls that always reeked of stinky feet, yet that didn't seem to bother me at the time. I can also remember with fondness, the costumed characters onstage moving in time to the music of The King while I sat there in the audience and sang along.  In fact, one Sunday after church, my family and I were eating lunch in a restaurant when Elvis came on the jukebox.  I remember hearing that familiar voice, my eyes lighting up and leaning over and telling my mom, "That man sounds just like The King from Chuck E Cheese!"  Little did I know at such an early age that the voice of Elvis didn't originally hail from the moving mouth of an oversized robotic mouse.

Yes, time most definitely changes your perspective. What were some of my favorite sitcoms growing up now seem beyond cheesy and are characterized by horrific acting and awful story lines.  But back then, man, Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski rocked my TV world! 

A few days ago, as I watched my niece bounce off the walls while coming down from her ice cream sugar high, I looked upon her burst of energy with feelings of nostalgia. Surely at some point, I too, had that same level of energy, right?  I can barely recall.  It's ironic that, as a child, all you want to do is forgo mid-afternoon naps and then stay up late, yet, as an adult, I would kill for a nap and I'm in bed no later than 9:30 every night.  So apparently, this girl has aged 80 years in a mere span of 32.  Maybe that's why Jeremy calls me "Grandmother" on a somewhat-daily basis.

Well, I may not be as quite spry as I once was, and I may not enjoy frequenting the same hangouts of even my college days...but I have matured in more ways than one.  So summer vacation no longer exists, and staying up late means catching the opening segment of Jay Leno's monologue.  Who cares?  At least I get my eight hours worth of sleep every night. 

I may now prefer eating in restaurants boasting white, linen tablecloths using utensils that I don't have to remove from plastic wrap to enjoy a juicy, rare steak, washed down by a bold, oak-y wine.  So my perspective and tastes have changed--such is life.  But I'll always recognize the soulful sound of The King when he comes on the radio because, quite honestly, some things never change.

When Push Comes to "Pool"

The clock is ticking way too slowly today as I'm eagerly awaiting my early escape from work so that I can enjoy some time poolside with a pina colada in hand.  Oh, how I love flex Fridays!  I also love the fact that I finally have my very own pool in the backyard, which is beautifully designed and landscaped by my talented, water-obsessed boyfriend. 

                                                 

If anyone knows me, you'd understand the feat that is pool ownership at age 32.  I spent the better part of my childhood begging Mom and Dad to put a swimming pool in our backyard.
Unfortunately, the likelihood of that happening was right up there with being gifted the much-anticipated pony I was promised but am still yet to receive.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't even learn how to swim until I was nearly 12 years old.  That's right, I was that kid.  You know--the one who frequented any pool I could,  outfitted with neon orange floaties on my arms and, in later years, the despised, obtrusive lifejacket, preventing me from submerging beneath the water.

                                               


I was also the kid rendered partially deaf, thanks to the earplugs I was required to wear at all times while in the water due to the numerous ear problems I suffered as a child.  The ironic thing is, though I never got a backyard pool, I'm pretty sure my family paid for my ear/nose/throat doctor's swimming pool as a result of my frequent visits to his office.  It was at those particular doctor visits where I underwent surgery for tubes, took hearing tests and received professional medical assessments, revealing a perforated eardrum, all of which put a damper on my childhood aquatic activities.

So the fact that I have, still to this day, never dove off a diving board and the reason I am also somewhat phobic about getting water in my ears (even in the shower) can't be entirely blamed on my parents and their refusal to put in a swimming pool.  These early traumatic experiences regarding my ears certainly played a major role.  Though I don't hold any truth to astrological theories, I find it a tad ironic that I was born under the sign of Pisces, the fish.  The only thing I have in common with the fish is that I sometimes eat it, slathered in tartar sauce with a side of hush puppies and fries.

Anyway, back to my story about childhood yearnings for a swimming pool... 

I mistakenly thought I'd come close to having my wishes fulfilled the day I came home from school and encountered a giant dirt pile in the backyard.  I thought, "This is it!  I've finally convinced Mom and Dad to put in a pool!"  I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, that the dirt pile was the beginning stage of a backyard putting green installation.  Talk about a major letdown to an eight-year-old girl!  In Dad's defense, it was a beautifully manicured and landscaped, three-holed putting green, but it was still just....a putting green.
                                                 
So if you ever see me at the pool or out cruising around Lake Ray Hubbard on our boat and you're wondering why I continually keep my head above water (literally speaking), it's because I'm still averse to getting water in my ears.  Also, I've never achieved world class swimmer status.  On the other hand, you can bet your bottom dollar I'm a badass on the putting green!

Oh, and by the way, I still hold out (perhaps false) hope for that damn pony.

Taking a Toll

 

                                    

Just yesterday, I opened my credit card statement with bated breath and my blood pressure skyrocketed when I saw the amount of toll charges I'd racked up in a single billing cycle.  There were five--yes, I said FIVE--$40 charges on my statement.  For those of you who are mathematically challenged (like myself), that equates to $200...in a single month!  Those fees from the NTTA are really starting to take a toll (pun intended) on my budget...and they're about to go up in July.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find the concept of toll charges ridiculous and unnecessary?  I'm sorry, but I thought that's what my taxes paid for.  Why then must I dig deep into my pockets to finance additional fees just to allow me access to a city highway?  Keep in mind this doesn't include the cost of gas to make my one-hour commute each way to work everyday.

Lately, I've been experimenting with different routes in order to save a little bit of money where I can.  Unfortunately, what I save in tolls, I more than make up for in time and gas.  So most days, I just suck it up and take the expensive route to work.  I find myself cringing each time I breeze past a toll booth. 

I'm reminded of the children's story Billy Goats Gruff.  All I want to do is make my way down the George Bush Turnpike, unaccosted by the evil, toll-charging troll who lives under the bridge.  Though he hides in an unmanned toll booth, he makes an unwelcome appearance on my monthly Discover card bill.

I don't remember the moral of the story, but I do recall the billy goat outsmarting the evil troll.  Unfortunately, until I can find a circuitous route that doesn't add a half hour to my commute, I'm just going to have to pay the evil troll's toll charges.  Perhaps that means I'll have to eat more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Ramen noodles than I care to, but I'll be damned if I let that nasty troll cut into my monthly shoe budget!  I'm all for saving money, but come on--a girl's gotta have her standards.                          

Better off Red

                                              




There's nothing more iconic in the beauty world than a set of shiny, blood red lips.  In fact, I believe a woman can go from merely pretty to absolutely drop dead gorgeous with a single coat of red lipstick.  It adds instant sex appeal and transitions the girl next door into a blockbuster bombshell.  Just think classic Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor--timeless beauty!

I enjoy eclectic fashion and cosmetic looks, and I often change my aesthetic with my changing mood.  This morning, I was feeling the 1950s retro vibe, so I donned my favorite fit-n-flare cherry dress with matching red heels and a sweater.  I decided to step out side my cosmetic comfort zone and trade my everyday bronze-tone lipstick for a come-hither red to complete my old school look.

Why is it that every time I attempt to emulate a perfect crimson pout right out of the pages of Glamour Magazine, I end up looking like a tanner version of the Joker?  Perhaps driving while applying doesn't help!  (Yes, I'm one of those women--although I only do my lipstick in the car.  Nothing else, thank-you-very-much!)

 

My point is this: countless other women can pull of magnetic red lips, so why can't I?  Is it because I'm not used to seeing such eye-popping color on my kisser, or does it simply not suit me?  I sincerely believe the former is the answer.  In an ideal world, anyone should be able to pull of fire engine red lips--and honestly, anyone can.  It's just that I'm not used to the dramatic color on my lips.

In order to create the perfect red lip, it takes skill and lots of practice.  First, you should line your lips to prevent feathering.  I personally use a flesh tone reverse lip liner from Cargo, which is used to trace an "invisible" line just outside your natural lip line.  It helps keep your lipstick from traveling and subtly highlights the edges of your mouth. 

Cargo reverse lip liner

                                                       Find it at www.ulta.com


Second, I advise using a lipstick brush to paint on color--either from a chubby crayon or tube of lipstick.  It allows for precision.  A lipstick tube is just too bulky to trace the exact perimeter of your lip line.  Blot any excess from the inner rim of your mouth to prevent getting lipstick on your teeth and be sure to wipe your hands thoroughly, lest you end up with the stained hands of a serial killer.  Finally, add a dab of clear gloss at the center of your bottom lip for a hint of shine, and voila!  You now have the lips of a 1960s pinup girl.         
            

Should you decide this bold look is just not your thing or that you too, end up looking like Batman's nemesis, simply wipe it off with a dab of makeup remover.  It's makeup, people--it's not permanent!  Have a little fun--take a risk or two.  Who knows?  You may permanently adopt scarlet lips as your new signature look.  Besides, a lady in red never goes unnoticed! (wink, wink)

Willie Nelson--a Living Legend

I'm currently sitting here listening to an eclectic span of music as it shuffles randomly from song to song on my ipod.  Just now, when the song Old Friends (a duet with the legendary Willie Nelson, late Roger Miller and also legendary Ray Price) popped up, I was inspired to give a shout out to my old friend, Willie. 

Having grown up on the songs (both those written and sung) by the Red-Headed Stranger, I feel it's my duty as a fellow musician to pay homage to such a living legend in our time--especially since it's been mere weeks since Willie celebrated his 80th birthday.

I really have my dad to thank for introducing me to Willie's music at such an early age.  In fact, I still laugh about the time Dad took my brother to a soccer game on picture day, and they were asked to fill out Cody's player information on the back of his photo trading card.  They put his team name, number and player position, but neither Dad nor Cody knew of any famous soccer pros to list under the "favorite soccer hero" category.  To this day, every time I see that trading card with Cody's goofy grin and his favorite soccer pro, Willie Nelson, it makes me laugh out loud. While Willie may not be a soccer pro, he's certainly a hero to many musicians spanning all genres of music--and rightly so.

I think one of the reasons Willie is so well respected by his peers and adored by his fans is because of his realness.  With Willie, what you see is what you get.  When he started his early music career as a struggling young musician in Nashville with a clean-cut appearance, he wasn't getting to produce the kind of music he wanted.  So Willie decided the Nashville scene just wasn't for him, and he moved to Texas, grew out his famous braids and decided he just didn't give a shit about what others thought about him.  He wrote and played the kind of music that satisfied the true artist within--and perhaps by accident, started a whole new musical movement in the late 70s (alongside Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson and Johnny Cash) called the Outlaw movement.

Not only is Willie recognized for that unmistakably twangy voice, he's also known and nearly worshiped by songwriters everywhere. I know how difficult it is to write a song, and the fact that Willie has hundreds of songs--and amazing ones at that--under his belt, leads me to respect him even that much more.  If it weren't for Willie, Patsy Cline's rendition of Crazy would be nonexistent--as would the sentimental value that song still holds for me this very day.

I don't honestly know of a single country musician who would claim they hadn't been influenced by the famous twang, heartfelt lyrics and undying passion of Willie Nelson in one way or another.  The man is truly a living legend indeed, and I'm humbled that I received the chance to meet him and open a concert for him when I was only a 20-year-old college student with big dreams of making it in the music business.

Though I only got to meet Willie for a mere several minutes, it was a life-altering opportunity for me.  He seemed a tad bit quiet, but incredibly nice as his fans eagerly waited for a handshake and a photo opp.  I was absolutely flabbergasted when Willie even asked me for my autograph, and I thanked him profusely for the opportunity to open the show for him.  I got him to sign the first print ad I had written for Martin Guitars in college, which pictured Willie with his old pal, Trigger (his well-worn guitar), and it still hangs proudly on the wall as part of my ongoing autograph collection.

When I kissed Willie on the cheek and caught a slight taste of weed lingering on his beard, it made me smile a bit.  Willie is a genuine person to whom God has granted a boatload of talent and perhaps even more magnificent life experiences, which he effortlessly weaves into the lines of his songs.  If you ever get a chance to see Willie up close and personal--and witness the lines on his face, symbolic of a full, well-lived life, and see the gentleness in his knowing eyes--I hope you realize you're standing in the presence of greatness. 

So Willie, I wish you the happiest of birthdays and hope for many more years to come...and I look forward to seeing you somewhere on the road again.