Momsie as Beauty Blogger is Back! And She’s All Glowy.


Guys. Remember when I got all beauty blogger on you? It was not my typical genre, I know. But HOLY COW IT WAS WORTH IT.

Here’s why:

  1. I am (air quotes) “getting older.” This means (air quotes) “Things are not the same as when I was 20” and, also, (air quotes) “Chocolate doesn’t fix it.”
  2. As much as tea and sympathy would be nice for aging, that doesn’t really fix the whole (air quotes) “Things start going south because gravity is stronger than hope” thing.
  3. In short, (big, fat air quotes) IT’S HELL GETTING OLD.

No. Noooooo, dial it down, Momsie. We’re supposed to embrace our bodies, and love the skin we’re in… but I would kinda like to make my skin perk up and pay attention a bit better.

It’s not hell getting old. It’s wonderful. It adds wisdom to the already pretty awesome mix that is Momsie, but you know what? If I’m gonna be able to add something to Momsie that makes my skin glow? YES PLEASE. PLEASE ADD THAT TO MY GETTING OLDER LIFESTYLE RIGHT NOW.

Columbia Skin Care uses “Our patent pending probiotic formula — the world’s first for topical skin use —  is comprised of probiotics (‘good’ bacteria) plant stem cells and peptides (amino acids), all of which uniquely combine to enhance the skin’s natural ability to renew itself.” (click here for more website information)

I received two products from the company: The probiotic complex and a more serum-like concentrate. I used both products daily for over thirty days. What I’m seeing is SO COOL.

I have increased elasticity, and less crepey skin. I have tighter skin around my neck. I have, in my opinion, MARKED RESULTS, and this is really quite a find for me. Let me explain. As I walk down the aisles packed full of products that promise to Lift, Renew, and Bamboozle the aging process… products that shout, “Try this and DENY aging altogether! In fact, just SMACK AGING IN THE ARSE! THIS JAR WILL DO THAT, WE PROMISE!”  I tend to smirk.

The smirking has decreased with this product. Granted, I don’t look 22 again, but really?  I wouldn’t want to go back to 22 anyhow. 22 was NUTTY.

So, I’ll live,right here in my 46 year old skin, and glow on.

Would you like a special offer? Got to: for the specific product page on

Purchase either probiotic product, and receive a FREE moisturizing cream, a 38$ value!
Use code: ProbioticGift at checkout.

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This is a sponsored post by #ColumbiaSkinCare #probiotics.






Skin care, getting older, and bras.

A few weeks back, Columbia SkinCare sent me a new line of products for me to try and review. I thought two things:

  1. I am no beauty blogger. No, my friends. I know this comes as a shock to you, but the concept of strobing for me is something that happens at a rave. Raves are weird dance party things that I might have gone to when I was young and stupid. There was a lot of thumping music and people dancing like they were having seizures. And strobe lights, of course.
  2. Holy freckles. I’LL TAKE ALL THE HELP I CAN GET.

Ok, as you may know, last I checked I am… Well, you know. How can I say this…

I’m… leaning delicately toward middle age.

Oh heck, I drove past middle age about three years ago. I’m a forty-ish mom of two kids under nine years old. I’M OLD AND TIRED.

It’s ok. Acceptance is key.

So, today I’m posting my first in a short series (because, let’s face it, beauty blogging and momsie go together like… rottweilers and pink doggie tutus that you buy at those expensive doggie clothes boutiques.)

Enjoy. Don’t worry. Stay tuned for your regular programming. My posts about how my children are maddening and adorable. Coming soon, I promise. My children will do something maddening and adorable any minute now and I’ll write about it.

But now I give you…

Squeaky Voiced Momsie and Her New Career as Beauty Blogger Extraordinaire

Good Meetings. And Good Hair.



Me, this morning, driving to a very needed hair  appointment.

Me: Hi God. I have my Jesus music on. Let me turn it down. Good stuff. Do you think you might have a little time?

God: Really? Have we not gone over this before? Yes, my girl. Go on.

Me: Ok. So… Um. Ok, here goes. There is all this awfulness going on. Have you SEEN all of this? Like, watch the news for about three minutes. And don’t even get me started on the facebook.

God: Ah yes. The Facebook.

Me: YES. Facebook. You know it? IT’S A HOT MESS. I mean, it has cat videos. Those help. And people post about their anniversaries. Those help too. But lately. Hot mess for the win.

God: Hmm. I can see how it might seem that way.

Me: I have two little boys. They’re little. Small, right? Like, they have all this growing up to do.

God: Yes. I know them dear. We were just talking last night.


And then, I pulled into the parking lot. My friend, who is also in recovery, is my hair dresser. She makes my hair look great. She also makes my heart great, because whenever we get together, it’s a meeting. For those of you who don’t know – I am an alcoholic, and I attend 12 step meetings. But sometimes those meetings don’t have to take place in church basements with the bad coffee.

Sometimes, they take place while you are getting flappy foils put in your hair. You look ridiculous, but the meeting is ON.

So then, I unloaded. She gave me highlights and I gave her my guts. Every worry and fear. My little boys. All the anger around us. All the people, falling apart. Falling down. Every prayer. All of it.

And then she reminded me:

“God has the mountains. Even when they seem to crumble. He is still in charge.”


You know this verse? It’s kind of a good one. The bible works that way – it’s got a lot of good ones. Sometimes I slap a bible verse on things, like a Jesus version of a Spiderman band-aid and hope it will feel better, but this verse? It’s bigger than a band aid. Bigger than a mountain.* I know this. But there is something about hearing it from another messenger, you know?

God and my hairdresser. A good morning. Meetings happen everywhere, as long as we are willing to listen.


*Actually – I would have to add, all of the bible? ALL of it: Bigger than mountains. Every letter.

Brave Red Lipstick and Faith.

Screenshot 2016-03-03 12.21.18

I keep trying to wear the red lipstick, y’all.

It’s a daily battle. Some days, I have to go to something outside, with real clothes on (always a bonus, actual clothes) and the Red Lipstick beckons.

“Come on…” it purrs.  “You know you wanna.”

It’s a slippery slope, the red lipstick.

Actually, it IS slippery and that’s the whole problem. Because, ultimately, as I stare t myself in the mirror, my M.A.C. Brave Red all loaded up and ready, I sigh and think, “I dunno. Do I feel lucky?”

Because, as sexy as Brave Red sounds, it comes down to this:


And so, inevitably, I end up looking like Courtney Love.  And with Courtney? It’s ok. It’s her thing. It’s kinda part of the package. Me? Not so much. Courtney Love, with smeary lipstick and mascara in a ripped slip dress just does NOT go pick up her kids at school and then take ’em to the park. Nope.

Well, maybe she does. I dunno. I never really asked her. But, if I was a betting woman, and let’s face it, I totally am because I still hollar “Watch your AIM!” when my boys head to the bathroom and hope I get lucky…

Anyhow, IF I was a betting woman, I am thinking Courtney Love is not all about playdates and packing lunches, and, you know, being dull.

I can’t get the lipstick to stay put. The other day, I had encountered at least three people in which actual real and lengthy conversations had happened and my lipstick had done this:


Now, to be clear, this is not me. This is a model. She is standing in for me, a sort of body double, if you will.  The poor dear can’t see a thing and that has got to be annoying.

My lipstick, y’all. It had traveled.

At some point in the morning I had decided to go all Brave Red all over my face. And chin. I looked like a Kool-Aided toddler.

(Also, I did not look a thing like Miss Skinny Asymmetrical as above but she’s there for dramatic effect.)

My love for red lipstick really took off about a year ago when I woke up one morning and found out I was old. Red lipstick helped, my friends. It understood. It made me feel, well, a bit sassy.

I think Richard Simmons when I think ‘sassy.’ And in this case, I am totally fine with that.

And, I told you that story to tell you this: the other morning I was walking my dog, and praying. I had passed my boys’ elementary school and was praying over it, the teachers, the kids, the kids who don’t know Jesus, the one that eats his buggers and taught my sweet, angelic, innocent little Red what a “weiner is” beside something you put in a bun and eat with ketchup. That kid got a whole block’s worth of prayer. I prayed over the deadly merry-go-round as I passed their recess area. I walked the perimeter, and I prayed.

And as I walked past the front of the building I realized I might look a little crazy. I was holding one hand toward the school, muttering as I walked, looking kinda, well, weird. Like, just plain crazy lady weird or crazy Christian lady weird. Either way, weird.

I stuffed my hand in my pocket and immediately stopped praying. But at that moment I was walking past the cafeteria, and for Pete’s sake those poor lunch ladies need PRAYER. It’s like the Thunderdome in there.

And here is how I pull this weird post all together and make you applaud my writing prowess:

Faith. It’s the Red Lipstick.

Put it on. Every morning. Head out with it. Don’t be shy.

The weird lady with the frenetic little dog will continue walking around your little elementary every Tuesday morning. I don’t CARE. We need prayer. Those kids in that school are all broken up and the teachers have to put them back together every day, and my God, I will pray. I will stay put.

And I purchase get a lipstick that does the same.

Betcha didn’t think I could tie ’em together, lipstick and faith? Well, neither did I. This post was just going to be about red lipstick and wrinkles, y’all. I didn’t really see the prayer thing coming. I am just so very spiritual.


Revlon Colorstay, y’all. It STAYS. Granted, you need a chisel and some small explosives to get it off, but I’m worth it. (See what I did there???)






Beware the Sighs of March

Ya’ll. Spring is here.

How do I know?

Well, for one, it’s warmer. And there’s flowers all about. Bunnies. General frolicking.

But the main clue?


You can see me coming for miles.

And, since, I really don’t feel like wearing the Mom Jeans for the duration, the whiteness must out, ya’ll.



We’re gonna start in slow, with all this Spring stuff. Dip a toe in the water, so to speak. I simply CAN’T handle tank tops and tan lines and pedicures just yet. There is so much REVEALING of things that have been so nicely COVERED up and all COZY for so long – it’s jarring.

So, this week, I decided to tackle my eyebrows.

Dude, they were all:






Or, if you prefer a more sporty look:









And I was all: Be GONE fuzzies!

Don’t worry, I didn’t go overboard. We all know how the dreaded over-pluck can make us look forever… quizzical. I realize, also, that eyebrow manicuring can be the gateway drug. Next thing you know I’ll be spray tanning.


One can only hope.




Saturday. Let’s Not Be Sensible.

So… this is a post about mah hair.

Here’s the deal. I am now a matronly and responsible age of forty-notgonnatellyous.  It’s wonderful, aging.  There’s nothing better.  Think of the perks:


Workers at McDonalds that call me “ma’am.”

Discussing the Brady Bunch with my students and continuing for a whole five convoluted minutes before I realize they are referring to the STUPID REMAKE.

My children who will always think CGI is an acceptable replacement for actual, um, film.

When I pick a pencil up off the ground I have to make a corresponding noise.


Flyers that come in the mail addressed to “Resident” about the AARP.  (I discovered later the mailer was for our next door neighbor, but I didn’t realize this right away because I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t really see the mailer address and oh snap this just makes it all worse.)

You see,   I think I am 18.  In my head, I am 18.  REALLY, I am.

But alas, the mirror has a few things to say about this.

Mirror: Hey!

Me:  Good heavens.  You again.

Mirror:  Try some moisturizer.  The bottle says, “Defies AGING!”  Hah hah hah.

Me:  Sarcasm is not appreciated this early.

Mirror: What? Just keeping it real. Really, you look great.  FOR YOUR AGE.  Hah hah hah.

Me:  I’m 18.

Mirror: Wow.  So, you had your firstborn at 13 huh?  Wow.  There’s an MTV show about that…  You should audition.  Hah hah hah.

Me:  I’m going to go put on my glasses and then we’ll talk.  And some moisturizer.

Mirror:  (Calling after me) What?? You don’t like my jokes?  I got some new material we’ll try out next time about how gravity works.  Don’t worry, I’ll be here ALL LIFETIME.  Hah hah hah…

But I digress.

My hair and I have been in an endless battle since I was in my twenties.  It’s my dad’s fault.  His hair genes told my hair genes to turn grey around 20 years old and I did what any normal, vain, twenty year old would do – I started throwing color on my hairs pronto.   And as time passed…   Well, I started to just get sick of it.  Every time my greys would come back in, I started to think I was looking more and more like this:


Just not quite as angry.

Or, worse, this:


Just hopefully not as odorous.

 And then every picture I ever took I kinda wished for the little helper called SOFT FOCUS like this:


So much so that my last selfie looked like this:

Photo on 12-28-13 at 8.56 AMYou know, all glowy and soft focus, right?  Glamour shot-ish.  It works, right??  Sorta like this:


Just not quite as… alert.


So, I got my hair did.  Chopped and de-colored.  Evidently, pulling color OUT of hair that has had color put IN it for 20 some years is a bit of a “project.”  (My sweet hair stylist friend actually called my appointment a “project.”  Like, cleaning up after the Exxon, or organizing my sons’ room.)  When I first went in for the appointment my dear friend (the hair wizard) kind of just stood over me whispering back and forth with her partner, looking at my head with consternation.  “This…  I am not promising anything.  This might work…  But whatever happens, just remember, we can always fix it.  Maybe.”

That’s heartening.

I must admit there were some moments (about three hours in) where  I was wondering if I might be leaving the salon looking like this:


Lord help me. I KNOW.  Proverbs 31 and all that.  But please.  Not this.

And then, lo and behold, the magician did THIS:


I make this face in all my pictures. I am trying to smile naturally. I never can. I end up sort of… smirking and grinning. Gmirking.

I like it.  It is a big change and much more red than I was ready for, but we are on “Stage One” of the “project.”  Eventually, I will be back to a nice soft brown.  For now, I kinda feel like this:


I had to crop this. I just had to. The comparison (weak as it is) ends at, erm, Jessica’s neck…*

Too much?

Sensible hair.  Practical hair.  Mom hair.  No more.  Momsie Rabbit’s not bad…  I’m just drawn that way.

*Earlier I asked the hubs if I was Jessica Rabbit-ish and he kinda cocked his head and responded (far too quickly) –

“Maybe more like this?”

Lucille-Ball-9196958-3-402Well.  I’ll take it.