As it turns out, I'm taking this burlesque thing pretty seriously: I have a stage name picked out, I'm hoping to do my first show in December, I'm obsessing over choreography, and I practice my shimmy when I walk down the street (this is easier when you assume everyone is already looking at you like you're a crazy person anyway). Which is why I spent two hours at the studio today learning how to put pin up make up on my own face.
I say "pin up make up" but I actually mean "any kind of make up at all". The whole exercise was a reminder of just how not girly I typically am - there is so much about make up that I don't even know. For example, did you know that applying foundation is not the first step in putting make up on? I had no idea. The very name of it, "foundation", suggests that this is the step upon which the rest of your make up application should be, you know, founded. But it isn't, this is actually step three and comes after moisturizer and a product I had never even fucking heard of, called "foundation primer". I couldn't even grasp the concept at first. The only primer that exists in amberanceland is the stuff that goes on walls before you paint them, and is also a step you can skip if you're working over a wall that has been painted before and you are covering it in a color that is close in both hue and shade to what's already there. You can't, apparently, skip foundation primer, unless you want your make up to slide right off your face.
Similarly, it turns out you're a fool if you try to put on eyeshadow right on top of your foundation. Yes, that's right, there is a primer for that too. Eyeshadow primer, it turns out, comes in many shades, but it is best to use one that is close to what will eventually be the lightest eyeshadow you'll be using that day. You'll be using more than one, FYI, you never use just one shade of eyeshadow at a time. Your eyes will have no depth if you do that. Duh.
I left the studio with a face full of make up, false eyelashes and a list of things I would need to pick up if I wanted to take on this whole "wearing make up" thing. I'm not entirely sure that I do, but it might be too late to turn back now: I have signed up for a class in pin up hair that will be taught by the amazing Sara Jean, and I recently bought a pair of turquoise shoes that I can wear with exactly one outfit in my closet (FYI, I have never, ever, bought a pair of shoes that I couldn't wear with the majority of clothes that I owned before this pair. It felt dirty in a not good way.) (Also, by closet I mean lingerie drawer. Those shoes don't go with anything I own that can be worn in public in a non-performance setting). If I start to become one of those women who shops, please do us all a favor and tie me to the couch in front of a hockey game until I snap out of it.
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Friday, June 23, 2006
Because I Can
...but I will tell you this: I love painting soooo much that I'm flying to Baltimore for the weekend to help Heather paint her new house. That's right, I booked a last minute flight to Baltimore because I've run out of things to paint in Chicago. But also, lest you think I'm crazy or something, I'm going to see Heather do an Improv show with her troupe. And also I thought it would be fun to book a last minute flight to anywhere because all of a sudden I can. I was right too, it was fun. And will be fun. Yay!
Monday, May 01, 2006
If You Want Something Done Right...
You know you're turning into a total bitch when you fire someone from painting their own new house. Which is what I did yesterday while trying to help the owner add a little color to his recently purchased condo. Dude can't paint, seriously. I demoted him to moving the ladder around for me. It was all he could be trusted with.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Amber's Birthday Wish List!
The owner (of Tai's) called me last night while I was on my way home from work. Our conversation went like this:
Me: Well hi there.
Owner: What's up, man? (he calls everyone "man'.)
Me: Nothing. Where you at?
Owner: I'm sitting on the beach. (fucker's in Hawaii.) Where are you?
Me: Fuck you. On the train.
Owner: That's sort of the same. (he's also a sarcastic little shit.)
Me: Kind of. Except I'm wearing a coat, and I bet you're not.
Owner: Nope. It's 83 degrees here. (asshole.)
Me: Asshole. Is this the point of your call? To remind me that you're in Hawaii and I'm not and be a dick about it?
Owner: Well, not entirely, but yeah, that's the main reason. (see?) Seriously, though, what are you doing Wednesday?
Me: Working. I'll be home by 6. Why?
Owner: I was thinking maybe Wednesday night I could pick you and your paint brush up and we could go out. (for paint.)
Me: That could work. I'll call you. I can't actually do any painting on Wednesday though, I have to work in the morning. But I'm off Friday AND Monday. I could paint then.
Owner: Oh don't worry, we'll be spending plenty of time together in the next couple weeks. (Tai's has been closed since the day after Christmas. The owner is remodeling the entire back room, which is the room we are discussing having me paint. The work has been going on while the owner is vacationing in Hawaii. They are scheduled to open up again on Wednesday night, though there is some doubt about the work being done by then, which makes me nervous.)
Me: Are you really going to be open by Thursday?
Owner: Oh, yeah. We have to be, it's your birthday! (Yay! He remembered! Probably because I've been threatening him about being open on my birthday since Halloween.)
Me: You remembered!
Owner: I've been telling the workers they have to speed it up, because it's very important that we're ready to open by your birthday. I won't have it another way. (ok, now he's just mocking me.)
Me: Alright, I can't tell how made up that is, but I'm going to choose to believe you because it's sweet of you.
Owner: Isn't it? (such a dick sometimes.)
Anyway, the point of that story is that it seems likely Tai's will be open for my birthday as I'd hoped. Which means the first item on my birthday wish list has come true! In the event you've waited until the last minute to pick up a gift for my birthday (which, to recap, is Thursday), here is a list of things that would be appreciated:
Me: Well hi there.
Owner: What's up, man? (he calls everyone "man'.)
Me: Nothing. Where you at?
Owner: I'm sitting on the beach. (fucker's in Hawaii.) Where are you?
Me: Fuck you. On the train.
Owner: That's sort of the same. (he's also a sarcastic little shit.)
Me: Kind of. Except I'm wearing a coat, and I bet you're not.
Owner: Nope. It's 83 degrees here. (asshole.)
Me: Asshole. Is this the point of your call? To remind me that you're in Hawaii and I'm not and be a dick about it?
Owner: Well, not entirely, but yeah, that's the main reason. (see?) Seriously, though, what are you doing Wednesday?
Me: Working. I'll be home by 6. Why?
Owner: I was thinking maybe Wednesday night I could pick you and your paint brush up and we could go out. (for paint.)
Me: That could work. I'll call you. I can't actually do any painting on Wednesday though, I have to work in the morning. But I'm off Friday AND Monday. I could paint then.
Owner: Oh don't worry, we'll be spending plenty of time together in the next couple weeks. (Tai's has been closed since the day after Christmas. The owner is remodeling the entire back room, which is the room we are discussing having me paint. The work has been going on while the owner is vacationing in Hawaii. They are scheduled to open up again on Wednesday night, though there is some doubt about the work being done by then, which makes me nervous.)
Me: Are you really going to be open by Thursday?
Owner: Oh, yeah. We have to be, it's your birthday! (Yay! He remembered! Probably because I've been threatening him about being open on my birthday since Halloween.)
Me: You remembered!
Owner: I've been telling the workers they have to speed it up, because it's very important that we're ready to open by your birthday. I won't have it another way. (ok, now he's just mocking me.)
Me: Alright, I can't tell how made up that is, but I'm going to choose to believe you because it's sweet of you.
Owner: Isn't it? (such a dick sometimes.)
Anyway, the point of that story is that it seems likely Tai's will be open for my birthday as I'd hoped. Which means the first item on my birthday wish list has come true! In the event you've waited until the last minute to pick up a gift for my birthday (which, to recap, is Thursday), here is a list of things that would be appreciated:
- A new roommate. Specifically the bartender, who has been planning a possible move into my storage room since early October, but so far has moved only a set of mixing bowls, some pots and pans, a few kitchen utensils and his golf clubs. If I can't get the whole roommate, I'd like to at least receive
- His shower curtain. The first time I was ever at the bartender's place, the first thing I noticed was his shower curtain. It is made up entirely of 2 inch tall pictures of old Playboy covers. Oh, it is so very, very cool. He took it down months ago, since his current roommate couldn't seem to learn to keep the curtain closed so as to prevent mold. They are now using a plain black curtain instead. I know he still has the Playboy one. I vote it should be the next object he moves.
- In addition to Tai's being open, I would like for all my Chicago friends to show up (Dave, I can't believe you. Your choices are my birthday party or a play and you chose the play? Is Keri in on this slap in the face as well? You guys are dead to me.) I'm baking a cake and everything.
- Surrounded by my loving entourage, I would like for my birthday party to turn out better than last year.
- Lots of blog comments. Especially from the two funniest bloggers I know: Heather and Jennie Smash. I have, like, the worst writer's crush on Jennie Smash. I mean, she is so cool she actually has cough syrup delivered. Mmm, cough syrupy Jennie Smash comments...
- Giant dildos are, of course, always appreciated.
- And I could use a digital camera, at least on loan, so my buddy Daniel can have a peek at my melons.
- Ass-less chaps.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Tai's Til Noon
Hey, you know what's weird? Being in the neighborhood bar all by yourself. And I'm not talking about when the bar just opened, the bartender is in the corner playing video games, and you're the first person to show up. What I'm talking about is, it's 7:30 in the morning, the staff has left, the sun is shining and the only noise is coming from the TV that the owner left on for you, which is blaring a story about Danika Patrick only being 100 pounds for the 15th time in a row on ESPN News. You are in the bar and you are alone. Dude, it's really weird.
I found out that being in a bar all by yourself on a Sunday morning is weird this past Sunday morning, when I was in Tai's all by myself, feeling weird.
No, I didn't pass out under the pool table unnoticed and get locked in. And no, no one suggested that since I'm there all the time anyway, I might as well just stay there. No, I was there all alone because I was painting the bathrooms. And I was painting the bathrooms because, well, because they really needed painted.
The owner had patched the walls some three months ago, but never got around to painting them. And, you know, I'm always taken care of in that bar. My friend the bartender has been known on occasion to pay for my drinks, and even when he doesn't, I don't have to worry about having cash on me, because the owner is always cool with me paying my tab at some point in the future (the reason this works, for those of you who are thinking about walking out on a tab at Tai's, is that he knows I will, in fact, come back and pay it). So I got to thinking about that, and the half dozen people who were quickly tossed out for their inappropriate handling of me by the wonderfully attentive staff, and I felt like I should give something back for all their generosity, so I decided to offer to paint the bar.
Aw, who am I kidding? The walls looked like seven kinds of shit and it was driving me up a fucking wall every time I had to pee. I had to paint them. I begged to paint them. For free. Anything. I would have done anything to get those walls painted.
Luckily, the owner was sympathetic to my plight*, and agreed that indeed I should paint the walls, I should paint them whenever I wanted, and I should paint them whatever color I wanted. So after much consideration, I painted the walls a very dark blue right after close on Saturday. After close to give them the maximum time to dry before they opened again, and dark blue because it seemed like one of the more difficult colors to write people's phone numbers/leave kiss marks with lipstick/draw cartoon penises on. And they look really good. The owner and the bartender and others all stopped by during the day just to check out my handiwork, and all called to say how nice of a job I did.
But man is it an eerie feeling being locked in a bar by yourself for 6 hours on a Sunday morning.
*wanted his walls painted inexpensively
I found out that being in a bar all by yourself on a Sunday morning is weird this past Sunday morning, when I was in Tai's all by myself, feeling weird.
No, I didn't pass out under the pool table unnoticed and get locked in. And no, no one suggested that since I'm there all the time anyway, I might as well just stay there. No, I was there all alone because I was painting the bathrooms. And I was painting the bathrooms because, well, because they really needed painted.
The owner had patched the walls some three months ago, but never got around to painting them. And, you know, I'm always taken care of in that bar. My friend the bartender has been known on occasion to pay for my drinks, and even when he doesn't, I don't have to worry about having cash on me, because the owner is always cool with me paying my tab at some point in the future (the reason this works, for those of you who are thinking about walking out on a tab at Tai's, is that he knows I will, in fact, come back and pay it). So I got to thinking about that, and the half dozen people who were quickly tossed out for their inappropriate handling of me by the wonderfully attentive staff, and I felt like I should give something back for all their generosity, so I decided to offer to paint the bar.
Aw, who am I kidding? The walls looked like seven kinds of shit and it was driving me up a fucking wall every time I had to pee. I had to paint them. I begged to paint them. For free. Anything. I would have done anything to get those walls painted.
Luckily, the owner was sympathetic to my plight*, and agreed that indeed I should paint the walls, I should paint them whenever I wanted, and I should paint them whatever color I wanted. So after much consideration, I painted the walls a very dark blue right after close on Saturday. After close to give them the maximum time to dry before they opened again, and dark blue because it seemed like one of the more difficult colors to write people's phone numbers/leave kiss marks with lipstick/draw cartoon penises on. And they look really good. The owner and the bartender and others all stopped by during the day just to check out my handiwork, and all called to say how nice of a job I did.
But man is it an eerie feeling being locked in a bar by yourself for 6 hours on a Sunday morning.
*wanted his walls painted inexpensively
Thursday, April 07, 2005
My Chemical Roommate
Two nights ago, I had a terrible headache of the please-I'm-begging-you-to-stab-me-through-the-ear-with-some-scissors-and-put-me-out-of-my-misery variety. After some Excedrin and a nap, I felt much better, and decided to further sooth myself by painting one of my bedroom walls (home improvement is my favorite hobby). I'm happily painting away, all dressed up in my painting pants (I deliberately spill paint on them from every room I've ever painted, like so many brightly colored memories. Also I'm a big klutz.) My cell phone rings and I see that Hot Heather is calling. "Are you at home?"
"Indeed."
"Then why aren't you answering your door?"
I must have been in the painting zone or something, because sure enough, I opened the door to find Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim standing on my porch. They had brought with them a laundry bag full of clean clothes, a bunch of spiked belts (punk-rock kid wardrobe staple, you must own at least 6 and wear at least half of them at once), a box of girly, fruity toiletries, another box full of shoes, and some DVDs. I was perplexed. "Is it my birthday? Or have you two finally decided you can't be seen with the preppy girl in public, and brought me some punk clothes so I can play dress up?"
"I'm moving in," Jim announced.
Queue headache rebound.
OK, it wasn't as big of a surprise as I'm making it out to be. Jim has been complaining more and more often about the antics of Jimmy O (et al.), the condition of his apartment (squalor) and the status of his material possessions (missing). He peppers these laments with little comments like these: "I'm getting out of there, by hook or by crook." "I should just crash over here." "This storage room you have is pretty big." "I love your neighborhood." and my personal favorite: "You're my best friend." All of this is designed to manipulate me into thinking that I want to have a roommate, and that said roommate should be Jim.
Amber and roommates don’t go well together. Ask Heather – she’ll remember my wacky college roommate experiences. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again. I like peace. I like quiet. I like my stuff to be where I left it. I like to walk from the bathroom to my room without any clothes after I shower. I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day. Roommates are not conducive to these desires.
Unfortunately, I also have two huge personality defects: a mothering complex and an inability to tell people no. So there is Vicodin Jim, standing on my doorstep with his clothes in a bag, deliberately trying to look pathetic. My poor little friend. Trapped in a filthy apartment in a shitty neighborhood with a cokehead roommate and no heat or stove because the landlord won’t pay to have the gas line to the house fixed. Giving me puppy dog eyes and the ever-persuasive but always fictional promise: “Just for a while until I find a place…”
With a deep sense of foreboding I reply, “Can I help you carry anything?” I am Amber, Captain of the Idiots, and he is Jim of Borg. That is, resistance is indeed futile.
Yesterday, he is singing to himself gleefully when I get home. He’s cleaned out my storage room and shoved most of my stuff in the attic. The bathroom smells like apples or something. I find him piling crap into my medicine cabinet and talking to either me or himself, I’m still not sure. “Strawberry body wash…. razorblades ….make up bag….nail polish…”
“WHAT??? Is this Heather’s crap or something?”
(Indignantly) “NO, it’s MINE. I have to have nail polish for shows, so that I look bad-ass. And I’m wearing black eyeliner and black mascara every day now, ‘cause it makes me look all goth.”
“Fine. But strawberry body wash? I don’t even have shit like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I get to smell nice just because I’m a guy? Huh? HUH? Now, let’s see…deodorant…body spritz…”
I shake my head sadly and go to my room to change. I’m standing in my bra with my skirt unzipped before I realize, oh yeah, I have to shut the fucking door now. Thankfully Jim is still unloading his Channel No. 5 or whatever the fuck he’s “spritzing” himself with.
Five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen looking for something to drink before I go out and run some errands. I notice that I am missing both the half gallon of milk and the carton of orange juice that were in there when I left that morning. I also notice half a pizza in my fridge. I check the freezer. Just as I suspected – he’s eaten my drunk pizza. He yells from inside the bathroom (6 feet away) “Hey, let’s go get some dinner!” Oh yes, lets. Dinner of course means “let’s eat somewhere expensive and then stop by my old house and pick up more of my crap and then have Heather come over and bring Napoleon Dynamite and whine until you agree to stay up all friggin night and watch it”. In 24 hours, I am already going insane.
The good news is that I KNOW this will lead to some excellently funny posts, probably almost daily. My loss is your gain, people. I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!
Seriously though, body spritz?
"Indeed."
"Then why aren't you answering your door?"
I must have been in the painting zone or something, because sure enough, I opened the door to find Hot Heather and Vicodin Jim standing on my porch. They had brought with them a laundry bag full of clean clothes, a bunch of spiked belts (punk-rock kid wardrobe staple, you must own at least 6 and wear at least half of them at once), a box of girly, fruity toiletries, another box full of shoes, and some DVDs. I was perplexed. "Is it my birthday? Or have you two finally decided you can't be seen with the preppy girl in public, and brought me some punk clothes so I can play dress up?"
"I'm moving in," Jim announced.
Queue headache rebound.
OK, it wasn't as big of a surprise as I'm making it out to be. Jim has been complaining more and more often about the antics of Jimmy O (et al.), the condition of his apartment (squalor) and the status of his material possessions (missing). He peppers these laments with little comments like these: "I'm getting out of there, by hook or by crook." "I should just crash over here." "This storage room you have is pretty big." "I love your neighborhood." and my personal favorite: "You're my best friend." All of this is designed to manipulate me into thinking that I want to have a roommate, and that said roommate should be Jim.
Amber and roommates don’t go well together. Ask Heather – she’ll remember my wacky college roommate experiences. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again. I like peace. I like quiet. I like my stuff to be where I left it. I like to walk from the bathroom to my room without any clothes after I shower. I like to come home and know that no one will be having an impromptu party despite the fact that they know I have to get up at 4 am the next day. Roommates are not conducive to these desires.
Unfortunately, I also have two huge personality defects: a mothering complex and an inability to tell people no. So there is Vicodin Jim, standing on my doorstep with his clothes in a bag, deliberately trying to look pathetic. My poor little friend. Trapped in a filthy apartment in a shitty neighborhood with a cokehead roommate and no heat or stove because the landlord won’t pay to have the gas line to the house fixed. Giving me puppy dog eyes and the ever-persuasive but always fictional promise: “Just for a while until I find a place…”
With a deep sense of foreboding I reply, “Can I help you carry anything?” I am Amber, Captain of the Idiots, and he is Jim of Borg. That is, resistance is indeed futile.
Yesterday, he is singing to himself gleefully when I get home. He’s cleaned out my storage room and shoved most of my stuff in the attic. The bathroom smells like apples or something. I find him piling crap into my medicine cabinet and talking to either me or himself, I’m still not sure. “Strawberry body wash…. razorblades ….make up bag….nail polish…”
“WHAT??? Is this Heather’s crap or something?”
(Indignantly) “NO, it’s MINE. I have to have nail polish for shows, so that I look bad-ass. And I’m wearing black eyeliner and black mascara every day now, ‘cause it makes me look all goth.”
“Fine. But strawberry body wash? I don’t even have shit like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I get to smell nice just because I’m a guy? Huh? HUH? Now, let’s see…deodorant…body spritz…”
I shake my head sadly and go to my room to change. I’m standing in my bra with my skirt unzipped before I realize, oh yeah, I have to shut the fucking door now. Thankfully Jim is still unloading his Channel No. 5 or whatever the fuck he’s “spritzing” himself with.
Five minutes later, I’m in the kitchen looking for something to drink before I go out and run some errands. I notice that I am missing both the half gallon of milk and the carton of orange juice that were in there when I left that morning. I also notice half a pizza in my fridge. I check the freezer. Just as I suspected – he’s eaten my drunk pizza. He yells from inside the bathroom (6 feet away) “Hey, let’s go get some dinner!” Oh yes, lets. Dinner of course means “let’s eat somewhere expensive and then stop by my old house and pick up more of my crap and then have Heather come over and bring Napoleon Dynamite and whine until you agree to stay up all friggin night and watch it”. In 24 hours, I am already going insane.
The good news is that I KNOW this will lead to some excellently funny posts, probably almost daily. My loss is your gain, people. I can’t wait to find out what awaits me when I get home today!
Seriously though, body spritz?
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