Archive for ‘Martini Madness’

February 6th, 2012

The Taming of the Brows

by Venomous Kate

One thing about being a stay-at-home mom: personal maintenance takes a back seat. Oh, I know I could claim that my life is all about my kid, which would make “letting myself go” sound far more saintly. But the truth of the matter is that my appearance just doesn’t matter like it used to; my forays into public consist of driving to and from school (at which point sunglasses and a slap of lipgloss suffice), and the occasional trek to the grocery store, pediatrician’s office, or karaoke night at the local bar (all of which require that I actually change out of pajamas).

And yet, sometimes it just gets to me… the unkempt hair, the complexion that looks like I’ve been washing my face with a Brillo pad, the eyebrows that look more like caterpillars facing off for battle above my nose. Seriously, thanks to the Iranian part of my heritage, if I don’t keep on them at least every few weeks, I start looking like this guy:

Not a pretty sight.

So, the other day I got a wild hair (I mean that literally, since bikini waxes are something else I seldom make time for) and decided I simply had to put down the bon-bons and get my ass off the sofa make time for personal maintenance. I shaved. I exfoliated. I oiled, steamed, filed, buffed and polished. I even picked up a home highlighting kit and decided to give myself a few sunny streaks to liven things up while I grow out the short “Mom haircut” I got a few months ago. Besides, I figure, highlights would hide just how much gray I’m getting up there.

Well, it turns out, I’m not just getting gray hair on top of my head. (No, this is not where I write about using a home hair-coloring kit to tint the downstairs carpet. I solved that little problem with a big jug of Nars, thank you.) My eyebrows are getting gray, too! Egads, is there no end to the indignity of middle age? So, after a stiff shot of vodka (which, by the way, tastes like crap in one’s morning coffee), I dusted off my tweezers and magnifying mirror and settled down by a sunny window to take care of business.

That was Mistake Number One. Because those mirrors? Oh, man. Every pore, every broken capillary, every wrinkle, flake and itty bitty hair looks ginormous. It’s enough to make one cry, really. Or to dump out half the coffee and replace it with even more vodka.

Turns out, drinking alcohol is not a smart thing to drink before deciding that waxing an arch into one’s eyebrows might be a good idea, since alcohol increases blood flow to the skin, and hot wax combined with increased blood flow to the skin leads to big, nasty looking scabs when you rip the wax off. Also, a lot of swearing.

By that point, the kitchen timer was telling me it was time to rinse the highlight solution out of my hair, but I was too busy mopping up the rivulets of blood flowing down the bridge of my nose and settling into the massively enlarged pores on my cheeks. So I grabbed an ice cube, telling myself I’d rinse my hair just as soon as I staunched the bleeding.

Naturally, I forgot all about the time. Apparently, drinking coffee mugs full of vodka will do that to you.

It wasn’t until an hour later — yes, an HOUR — when my husband and son came home from wherever it is males go when it’s time to do family chores on a Saturday. And there I was, puttering in the kitchen, my gait decidedly bow-legged (hey, YOU try waxing your crotch at home for the first time in years and see if you don’t walk funny, too!) with folded wads of tin foil sticking out from my head like shingles and the skin above my nose finally starting to scab.

And they said nothing. Not one word. Because, although I’ve apparently failed to train them to help out with household chores, they’ve somehow trained themselves not to comment negatively about my appearance… even when it’s much deserved. (It’s possible my shrieking temper tantrums when they’ve pointed out that my pajamas seem to be getting too snug again may have had something to do with this.)

Flash forward several more minutes to when the third mug of coffee with vodka (hold the coffee) hit my system. My bladder about to burst, I dashed to the bathroom to pee where, of course, I saw my reflection and screamed, not because of the huge red welt and dark scab between my brows, but because the damn highlighting foils were STILL there!

Convinced my hair was going to break off in chunks, leaving me once again with hair short enough to prompt strangers to assume I had gender identification issues, I carefully unfolded the bits of foil and found… perfection. Carmel and honey-colored streaks the shade that my stylist, despite repeated efforts, never obtained without first taking my hair platinum and then trying to disguise the damage (and frazzled ends) with toner. Beautiful, pretty streaks that added volume to my hair and, most importantly, disguised the gray. Streaks that were, in fact, so gorgeous I wanted to style my hair and go out somewhere to show off how awesome it looks.

So, after dabbing on aloe and a thick layer of foundation in an effort to conceal my eyebrow-waxing mishap, I suggested to my husband and son that we all go somewhere, maybe for a nice lunch at a restaurant we’d been wanting to try.

And darned if they didn’t immediately remember that it’s Family Chore day, and that they needed to tackle their bathroom, clean the garage, wash and vacuum the cars and rake leaves in the yard. Since I’d finished all of my own chores, they said, I should take some time for myself to do something relaxing, like maybe take a long bubble bath followed by a nap. In hindsight, their sudden interest in doing chores can probably be attributed to the fact that, thanks to three cups of vodka laced with coffee, I probably looked a lot like this:

But who cares, right? I not only got time to tame my eyebrows but ALSO time for a nice, hot bubble bath and a nap…which, thanks to the vodka, occurred simultaneously.


February 22nd, 2011

Happy National Margarita Day 2011

by Venomous Kate

Happy National Margarita Day I almost forgot: Happy National Margarita Day to all of you whose attorneys haven’t advised them to stay the hell away from tequila!

September 17th, 2010

This Is Not The Bitch You Are Looking For

by Venomous Kate

Earlier this afternoon I realized I’d been on the computer far longer than planned, which meant I’d yet to accomplish several of the things I’d intended to do this morning. One of those things happened to have involved taking a shower. Another was filling up my gas tank because the empty light came on yesterday but I have, as you may have noticed, a habit of putting off certain necessary tasks.

A half-hour before I’m supposed to pick my son up from school I realized that if I didn’t get gas before getting my kid the chances were pretty high we’d get stranded on the way home and, well, that would totally undo the hours I’ve spent nagging him to take care of his responsibilities.

So, after a quick change out of my pajamas (see, I put off getting dressed, too) and a couple swipes of pit stick, I threw on my biggest black sunglasses and dashed off to the gas station. According to the clock I had plenty of time to fill up before a visit to the drive-thru liquor store (an errand I never, ever forget to take care of). As I stood there pumping gas, a rather wild-haired, angry-looking and tall woman thundered up to me.

Y’all, I am not a small person, horizontally speaking, but I am short. As in, one of the reasons I don’t go to amusement parks is because it’s always iffy whether I’ll be tall enough to get on any rides outside of the children’s area. I kid you not.

Anyway, this unmistakably angry female giant stomped her size 14 shoes until she was all of three inches from my face — or would if her face wasn’t actually a good foot higher than mine. Really, what she did was walk up until we were maybe a hand’s width apart and curled her snarling, blood-reddened face down until it hovered uncomfortably near mine.

I, meanwhile, am doing my best Jedi Knight mind work as I first try to make myself invisible or, failing that, to make her think I’m just as scary as she is. In case you’re curious, these things apparently cancel each other out. And, as anyone who knows my temper can tell you, that’s right about the point where I go into small-dog mode and start acting a bit scary myself. I do NOT like taller people thinking they can walk all over me, proverbially or otherwise.

Just as I’m peeling myself from the side of the van I’d been trying to melt into just a fraction of a second before, she began ranting. It was a bit hard to hear her over the thundering in my temples, but it went something like this:


Remember what I said about how I seldom procrastinate when it comes to the drive-thru liquor store? Yeah, that’s because I stopped meeting friends at bars twice a week for drinks. I mean, weekday mornings are hard enough. Throw a hangover into the works and, well, I’m too old for that shit. My alcohol consumption now mirrors my sex life: once a week, and only if it works out with my husband’s schedule. Also, I don’t play patsy fingers with anyone but my husband. (See previous comment about if it works out with his schedule.)

I was just about to explain this very fact, but the woman’s spit was splattered all over my big, black sunglasses. So, forgetting how very crappy I looked, I slid them up onto my forehead and opened my mouth to tell the tall, scary woman off. (It’s that whole small-dog syndrome and I’m kind of crazy like that. Just ask my formerly favorite bartender.)

But the tall, scary woman opened her mouth first.

“YOU AIN’T ANGELA!” she said, backing away from me faster than I thought a woman her size could actually move. “OH, MY GOD. I’M SO SORRY!” She promptly turned on her heel, hurried off to her crappy car, and sped away while I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

So a word of warning, to Angela in Leavenworth, whoever you are: keep your eyes peeled, because there’s a very tall, wild-haired, angry woman who is hunting you down, and it sounds very much like you deserve it. Also, a short, horizontally-challenged woman who nearly took an undeserved ass-whipping for you is on the lookout for you down now, too, and I assure you that you don’t have the Jedi Knight mind skills to handle either of us.

May 11th, 2010

It’s Good To Have Standards

by Venomous Kate

I stopped at the liquor store this afternoon to pick up a fresh bottle of vodka because, you know, it’s a day that ends with a y.


The guy in line ahead of me had selected a nice bottle of Moet & Chandon’s White Star. (A 2008, as he pointed out when I complimented his selection; they discontinued that label last year.)

And then he proceeded to pay for it in change, pulling coins from both pockets of his pants and pouring it out of a grease-splattered brown paper bag he’d sat down on the counter. He even produced a roll of quarters he’d tucked into one sock with a hole big enough for his heel to poke through.

There you have it, folks: proof the economy is recovering. Even winos are shelling out for the good stuff these days.

December 19th, 2008

Since I Can’t Say Anything Nice…

by Venomous Kate
December 16th, 2008

If You Could Read My Mind, Love*

by Venomous Kate

What a tale my thoughts would tell… oh, wait. You don’t have to wonder. Now you can read the new incarnation of Queen of Snark (me, uncensored… unfiltered… unkind) where I tell ALL as well as tell off every idiot who’s ever annoyed me.

But be warned: you just might think that blog entry’s about you, and, chances are you’d be right.

*Apologies to my beloved Gordon Lightfoot.

November 7th, 2008


by Venomous Kate

On the recommendation of an acquaintance, I’ve been watching the Amazon “watch it now” episodes of Californication, HBO’s series about a one-hit novelist starring David “I’m a Sex Addict” Duchovny.

Meanwhile, I’ve spent the day struggling to piece together an op-ed piece before my 8 p.m. (Central) deadline. Up until my first glass of champagne this evening (No, I’m not celebrating anything; I just like champagne), I’d manage to eke out perhaps four paragraphs. It would have been more and probably was, without all the deletions and do-overs. But, as with so many times I sit down to write, that little editor inside my head kept screaming at me.

Midway through my second glass of champers, I realized why so many writers are lushes, including Duchovny’s character, Hank, who discovered in Episode 6 of Californication that “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”

The reason why writers drink so much is simple: because editors can’t.

October 30th, 2008

Tippling Tuesday: The Belated Edition

by Venomous Kate

Thanks to a neighbor with a bottle of absinthe I didn’t run Tippling Tuesday this week. (Why, yes, the absinthe was good. No I don’t remember much of the evening. Didn’t I just repeat myself?) The way I see it, I might as well run Tippling Tuesday tonight, belatedly.

So… what are you wearing???