Regarding Bubblebaths and All Things Girly (I.E. - Guys, as I'm sure you would appreciate this snarky glimpse into a woman's beauty rituals, this post might downright bore the heck out of you)

I have a morning beauty routine that would make Sonia Kashuk cringe, Bobbi Brown cry, and Paul Mitchell drop his hot, buttered toast and run as fast as he could to the safe haven of a nearby salon. You would think that having a routine that takes all of 25 minutes tops to perform would cut down on the amount of beauty products I have stored in one of the seventeen following places: the shower, the medicine cabinet, every shelf of the linen closet (I now store my towels in my dresser drawers), the general floor area of my bedroom, my nightstand, the top two drawers of my dresser, any given square inch on top of my dresser, the three drawer tupperware system sitting next to my dresser, under my bed, in my closet, on top of my OTHER dresser, in my gym bag, in my purse, in the trunk of my car, in my glove compartment, on top of my desk at work, and in two of my desk drawers at work. You thought wrong. I have spent an amount so outrageous on beauty products that if I added it all up, I am pretty sure I could fund my own retirement. Like, right now, at the age of 26.

I don't know why women do this. Take this little quiz I came up with and let me know how you fare.
True or False:
1. You get tired of the shampoo you're currently using before you even use half the bottle.
2. You have been invited to stockholders meetings for BonneBell.
3. You have a day cream, night cream, eye cream, wrinkle cream, day cream with SPF, lip cream, night cream with retinol, day cream with vitamin C, and an eye cream/wrinkle cream duo sitting in your medicine cabinet.
4. You own 5 tubes of the same shade of lipstick because you keep losing the tubes in the depths of you car. You clean your car and find said tubes. Tubes are no longer rolling back and forth under your car seat playing Red Rover, Red Rover with the crusty french fries and ball point pens. Tubes are returned to their cozy home in your cosmetic bag dedicated solely to lip coverings.
5. You never, ever, have NEVER finished an entire tube of lipstick. Or bottle of foundation. Or compact of powder. Or mascara wand. Or stick of deoderant (just me? Yeah, I can't figure that one out either.)
6. You have spent more than 10 minutes on the shampoo aisle of Wal-Mart.
7. When you go on an out-of-town trip, you have an entire piece of luggage dedicated solely to all things beauty related, while your significant other shows up with one bottle that does it all and a toothbrush.
8. You have a little sister who lives for the days when you clean out your ever expanding collection to pass on to her. (After which, you immediately run to your drugstore of choice to restock.)
9. You have about 8 full collections (shower gel, lotion, body splash, and eau de toilette) of different fragrances from Bath & Body Works because you use a different one depending on the 1. season of the year, 2. mood you're in, and 3. where you're going.
10. Despite your ever expanding covey of hand lotions, your digits stay cracked and your cuticles stay dry.

My score? EPIC FAIL.

Although my quest to smell good, look decent, and have moisterized skin has taken its toll on my bank account and available storage space, I do have a few tried and true products that I would like to share with you in hopes that you will test out in order to validate (a word my boyfriend hates) me.

First off, us girls know the importance of makeup (well, most of us do. There are still those who have yet to figure out that there are products out there that can smooth out that skin tone of yours, brighten your eyes, and give you a perfect pucker. Come visit my den of glamour. I won't let you leave empty-handed.) Particularly, we know the importance of color on our lips. One of my friends moms always said, "Now girls, never leave home without a fresh pair of panties and lipstick on your lips." Good advice. I know we've all been to Wally World wearing no makeup and in our sweatiest sweats. It never fails that we run into someone we know! Am I right or am I right or am I right? Right?

Dang. That took a long time to get here: My pick for lip covering? Revlon Colorstay Mineral Lipglaze. My color? Stay Ablaze. This junk is GOOOOOD. It goes on so smooth. It has staying power. It's not sticky. It's not shiny like if-the-sun-hits-my-lips-at-the-right-angle-I-could-blind-you-shiny, but it does have a subtle sheen. Trust me, it will blow all of the other 8,000 lipglosses, lipsticks, chapsticks, lipstains you've ever tried, out of the water. It retails for around $9 and is totally worth it!

Next up, we all know the effects a good bubble bath has on our general pleasantness at the end of long day, don't we? (And I'm sure our significant others do too.) My top pick for the bubbliest bubbles, the calmingest scent, and the refreshingest refresh? C. Booth's Lavender Bubble Bath. It retails for $6 which is cheaper than Bath & Body Works and frankly, is a far superior product than anything I've ever bought off their shelves. Try it. Your general happiness will thank you. The bottle looks like this but the liquid inside will be pastel purple:

Batting third is Dove Pink Beauty Bar. The smell, the feel, the COLOR? Everything is perfect about this soap. I've been using it since I was about 15 and have never used a bar soap that left me as clean feeling and fresh smelling as this one does. And Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty? What could be more perfect than chubby girls in their underwear on TV? This makes me happy! And it'll only set you back about $3 for a two pack.

Next up is Johnson's Softcream Melt Away The Stress Lotion. I keep this on my desk when I'm feeling stressed out at work. It's perfectly moisterizing without being sticky. Only, here's the thing: when I apply it to my hands, I close my eyes, breathe in deeply, and think of sitting on the beach with a margarita in my hand. You must do this too. It makes it better, I promise. And look! Here's a coupon!

Hair, you ask? Ah yes, this coif on top of my head that I spend about 8 minutes total on each day. (That's 2.027 entire days per year that I spend on my hair alone. Which seems like a lot. I can't imagine spending like 20 minutes a day. 30 minutes a day! Plug in my hairdryer and drop it in my bubble bath NOW! I would die! By the way, spending 30 minutes on your hair each day is equal to spending almost EIGHT ENTIRE 24-HOUR DAYS PER YEAR JUST ON YOUR HAIR. Holy crap.) That's why I like Pantene Volume Touchable Hairspray Flexible Hold Aerosol. It holds my hair in place no matter what the weather is like, it keeps my hair bouncalicious, and it doesn't leave a sticky residue. (Is it just me or is there a running theme here with stickiness? Hey beauty product manufacturers! I'd like to leave sticky with things like lollipops, glue, and honey, NOT in residue form anywhere on my body. Thankyouverymuch.) You'll pay about $4 for this.

On my nails, you will always (okay not always, and sometimes that always includes cracked and peeling) find Maybelline Express Finish 50 Second Nail Color in any of their wonderful-don't-make-me-wait-till-this-stuff-dries-because-I-am-too-impatient-OOOOOhhhhhh-my-leg-is-itching-must-scratch-but-what-about-my-wet-nails? colors, but my fave is Speedy Hot Tamale. Try it. You will never go back to paying $9 for that OPI crap! For that price, buy THREE!!!! bottles of this:

And finally people? Oral health? One word: Mouthwash. Use it. Any kind, any flavor. Your mouth (and me) will thank you.

What's got eight legs, a pool, dirty children, and one fabled lake monster?

So I mentioned the other day that a menagerie of baby spiders hatched on my ankle 10+ years ago and I promised you an explanation. So here it is.

I was a camp counselor at a summer camp called Camp J.O.Y. for 5 summers, from the time I was 13 until the summer I turned 18. Camp J.O.Y. is a week-long summer camp for underpriveleged children from all over Georgia.

So basically, the summers of my teenage years were spent babysitting. But not babysitting for the kinds of kids you end up falling in love with and hope your own children turn out like one day. No, these kids were Satan's offspring. And because Camp J.O.Y. taught Christian principles and required the kids to attend daily bible studies and worship services, naturally, we were met with some strong Mephistopheles-like opposition.

There were countless runaways who us counselors would have to chase after, always in the middle of the night for some reason, armed with flashlights, and reciting a prayer through clenched teeth that we could find the little stinker. There were the fighters who thought everyone was out to make their lives a living hell by say, asking them to flush the toilet when they were finished, or perhaps asking them to hand in their knives at the beginning of the week. Yeah. There were the ones who were the silent, angry type who just sat there with a scowl on their face, ruining playtime for everyone else. There were the ones who, after you'd made them run 372 laps around the chapel (yes, the chapel. Maybe we thought it had an angelic influence.) still wouldn't act even the slightest bit amiable. (Satan used Camp J.O.Y. as his personal daycare service, I'm convinced.) And then there were the cryers. Damn sissy cryers. Suck it up, kid! It's only a week!

In hopes that I don't sound too callous, I'll tell you, too, about the ones who would've broken your heart. Ones whose "gaurdian" - could have been an aunt, a sister, a grandmother, just anyone but the person who brought them into this world - would carelessly drop them off on Monday morning and sometimes, get ready, NEVER PICK THEM BACK UP ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON. Or maybe the one who didn't have a suitcase because she was wearing everything she owned on her back. The one who soaked up every bit of joy the camp had to offer because he knew what he was going back to on Friday: a place where there was no joy. The one who hung all over you (and consequently gave you lice) because she thought you were the coolest person she had ever met and she wanted to be just like you one day. The ones who come up to you in a public place, five, ten years after you were their counselor, remember your name, give you a huge hug, and tell you they're about to graduate highschool and have a scholarship to go to college.

So needless to say, Satan's spawns and all, Camp J.O.Y. has a very large piece of my heart (like, probably my whole left ventricle). I learned how to lead people, I crushed on some of the boy counselors, I made best friends, I learned to not question how old the food was that I put in mouth (and consequently now have a Rhino-lined stomach), my faith found footing...and I can now tell people that an eggsack has hatched on my ankle.

We were coming back to the cabin after a bonfire, changing into our pj's. I removed my shoes and socks and noticed a few dark specks on my right ankle. I thought it just dirt so I went to the bathroom to wash it off. I scrubbed and scrubbed. The dark specks wouldn't come off. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the tiny dark specks...WERE MOVING. So, naturally, I calmly went to the camp nurse and...NOT!

I. Freaked. Out.

I found a magnifying glass (who even knows where the heck I found one of those laying around) and determined that the suspicious dark specks were in fact, baby spiders. Lots of screaming ensued, followed by a very hot needle, some rubbing alcohol, and many tears. If you ever need one, I am fully prepared to give you a tutorial on how to burn baby spiders off of your flesh.

The culprit (eggsack) was found on my sock and, needless to say, to this very day, I have a very noxious opinion of spiders.

#6 On My List of Items That Should Banned From Earth: Fannypacks

I know what you're thinking. You're probably expecting me to rant about some crazy person wearing a fannypack, doing idiot things, and thus giving me something to blog about. Well, you're wrong. In any other situation, yes, that would be a completely legitimate story for one of my blog posts and such a character would fit nicely between Idiot Convertible Driver and well, Billy Bob. However, today's lesson on all things fannypack revolves around a bomb threat.

So I'm sitting at my desk, doing my daily crossword puzzle, counting the milliseconds until 5:00 p.m. when Mark calls me to tell me that there are about a dozen cop cars blocking off several intersections downtown. I don't think much of it and decide the blockade is probably for another stupid parade the city is doing. (I'm pretty sure my city would do a Groundhog Day parade if they had enough clowns and horse riding cops volunteer for it.) So I go back to figuring out what a five letter word for "fundraising dinner unit" could be. (It's "plate" by the way.) Time: 4:32 p.m.

"Suzy, you'll have to exit the parking garage on the West side today. They've got the East side barracaded because of the BOMB THREAT," says Billy Bob. Wha???? My ears perk up. I freak out. I begin to sweat. "Did you say bomb threat?" "Yeah. Crazy, ain't it?" "Why the hell are we still in the building then?" I ask. "Oh, it's probably just some crazy taxpayer mad about how much they had to pay in property taxes this year," says the man whose property taxes are frozen at the ridiculous 1947 millage rate (Billy Bob). "Well, it sure would be nice if they'd let us put into practice those stupid drills we had to do last week," I say (well, more like shout. Hysterically.) Time: 4:51 p.m.

I begin to gather my things and mentally prepare a will. Time: 4:56 p.m.

Time: 5:00 p.m. I run down the stairs, through the sliding glass doors, onto 2nd Avenue. I am greeted by no less than 10 cop cars, 3 fire trucks, and one BOMB SQUAD MOBILE RESPONSE UNIT TRACTOR TRAILER. I stare in disbelief. This is definitely not a parade. There are men in uniform walky-talkying all around me. There are concerned citizens milling about. And then there's me, hightailing it my car to get the hell away from a potential bomb that may or may not have the ability to blast me into the next milleneum.

I arrive home. Time: 5:15 p.m. I check the local newspaper's website and find this headline: "Suspicious Package at Columbus Government Center isn't dangerous, situation ends."

The culprit: a fannypack with a pair of gloves inside, laying in the bushes. Time Homeland Security (I'm not kidding) was called to the scene: 4:30 p.m.

Case in point? Fannypacks are the devil. Fannypack? You are dead to me.

Tonight, Tonight, The World is Wide & Bright

1. Publix has officially turned me off to the ice cream aisle. Thank you, Publix, for realizing that us "Resolutioners" still have to grocery shop. Thank you, Publix, for realizing that we will still be tempted to traipse down the ice cream aisle, thinking we have the will power to say no, but knowing we will eventually give in to the chocolaty goodness of Phish food. Yes, thank you, Publix, for putting frozen beef liver on the ice cream aisle. I will no longer experience the same joy walking down that aisle as before. You're smart, Publix, real smart.

2. Between the hours of 7:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m., any given t.v. viewer has the opportunity to view America's Funniest Home Videos on THREE DIFFERENT CHANNELS. Is there no better programming out there? I mean, give us some Gilmore Girls or something! Two were from the new host and there was one throwback episode from Mr. Saget. (But are they not all throwbacks? I swear, each time I watch that show, all of the audience members are straight up out the '80's, puff sleaves, blue eye shadow, and all.) I expect better out of you tomorrow night, cable t.v.

3. The Biggest Loser Season 9 premiered tonight. I've never watched The Biggest Loser before and I don't think I'll start. No reason in particular, it just doesn't hold my attention the way, say, Conveyer Belt of Love does. One of the drill sergeants actually said, "The contestants this season are MASSIVE." Yes, they're biggies, but massive? Massive is a word I contribute to world destruction, not chubsters. I don't know; I'm just not jumping on the band wagon. Are you? (And why? TELL ME WHY? They make the contestants weigh in without their shirts (male) and in sports bras (female)! I mean, I understand they don't want any added weight on the scales, but at this point, could a 1/2 lb. shirt really make THAT much of a difference? I don't think so.)

4. Luscious on For the Love of Ray J 2 went home tonight. Sorry to spoil it for you. I know you DVR'd/TIVO'd it.

Okay, time for my nightly dose of Benadryl and 30 Rock on Netflix. Peace out haters.

A Botox-Free Facelift

A new year, a new blog. (Wasn't "A New Year, A New You" the Jenny Craig slogan a few years ago, pre the Kirstie/Valerie feud?)

I kinda felt like it was time to make a few changes. More specifically, my blog needed to graduate from middle school. The pink, bubbly font with the cute stripey things just weren't doing it for me anymore. I needed something more grown-up.

So making its 2010 debut...introducing PeyPeyChronicles-Grown-Up-Point-Oh! (You know, like AOL, version 4.0? I felt like that one needed some extra explanation. Sometimes the things that come out of my brain are not easily understood by others.)

I like it. Do you?

Blood, Sweat, & Kickboxing

Touche, Turbokick, touche.

Don't you dare call me a failure

So today I am officially starting my diet. Although I don't want to call it diet. I want to call it my skinny quest. One of my taglines on this blog is "I have been fat my entire life". It's true people. I can't remember a time when I looked or even felt remotely thin. My self esteem has, thank goodness, never suffered because of this (and honestly, you might want to watch out if - no WHEN - I get skinny because my self esteem will be uncontrollable, I am afraid.)

But looking back over the years of fat rolls, what I am sure would amount to a dump trucks load worth of cakes, brownies, and other assorted sweets, clothing that has never ever ever freaking EVER fit properly, (don't ask me how my self esteem stayed in tact through all of this) I have determined that I am a failure when it comes to discipline and following through on my goals. (See also the complete unabridged works of my college career.) And failure? A word I would like only to use when referring to any member of the Spears family.

Yet failure? My past goals are riddled with it. See the below example from my blog of January 28, 2009...


Ok, so here are my goals:
1. One year from today, January 28, 2010, I will be 75 pounds lighter.
2. By May 28, 2009, I will have lost 25 pounds. That's 1 1/2 pounds per week.
3. By September 28, 2009, I will have lost 50 pounds. That's 1 1/2 pounds per week.
4. By January 28, 2010, I will have lost 75 pounds. That's 1 1/2 pounds per week.

Yeah. That's failure with a capital "I'd have to lose 10 pounds before I even started on last years #1 goal to lose 75 pounds!" It's sad, isn't it? But please don't pity me. No, instead, drill sargeant me when you see me pick up chip drenched in cheese dip. Slap the cocktail glass out of my hand when I tell you "I had a rough day so I deserve this drink". (Rough day? Please! Have you seen my posts about my job? Yeah. If i say this sentence to you, please know that I am straight up lying through my teeth.) And go ahead, be my guest, call me a fat ass when I cut myself a bigger piece of YOUR birthday cake than you got. But don't you dare call me a failure.

This time, folks? Watch me lose as much weight as I can. I dare you.

And give me a high five when I see you at the gym tonight with the rest of the "failures".

I'm on a skinny quest.