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October 10, 2006

The Post That Makes Men Glad They Are Not Women (As If They Ever Wished They Were)

I set aside an hour and a half for beautification today. My skin tends to be oily, so occasionally I apply a coat of Queen Helene Mint Julep Masque to my face. I spread the thick green mask on my face, wait for it to dry, and wash it off, along with the impurities and tension that mar my complexion.

Male readers may need an idea of the color and consistency of this beauty product.


For obvious reasons, I use the Queen Helene Mint Julep masque in private whenever possible. I’m an obsessive multi-tasker, so I often pay bills, unload the dishwasher, make phone calls, or write while waiting for the masque to dry. Today, however, I had ambitious hair-coloring plans I intended to perform while the masque dried.

It’s not unusual for me to color my hair myself. I’ve been using the same color, Feria Creme Brulee (aka “Golden Brown”) for years. It’s a wonderful reddish blonde. My mom hated it and always tried to get me to dye my hair plain blonde. Since her death many of her friends have told me they’ve secretly liked it the whole time; they just agreed with her when she complained about it to make her happy.

Salon professionals sneer at the idea of having only one color on your hair, because hair is naturally composed of strands of different colors. Thus, stylists will often weave highlights (a lighter color) or lowlights (a darker color) into your hair to contrast with the main color.

I decided to acknowledge the passing of summer into fall by adding some lowlights to my hair. In addition to my regular Creme Brulee, I purchased boxes of Hot Toffee (“Rich Golden Brown”) and Crystal Brown (“Light Brown”). (I guess they ran out of brownish dessert names). I also bought all the accouterments I’ve seen the stylists use at the salon when they add highlights using foils.


At the last minute I decided to confine myself to the Brulee and the Toffee and not go completely crazy on my first try, which turned out to be a wise decision.

I wanted to be sure I applied the dye correctly, so I Googled the procedure. I Googled “how to apply lowlights when coloring hair” and “dying hair with different colors” and thousands of related searches. Apparently you can learn how to build a bomb on the Internet, but if you want to dye your hair using more than one color you have entered dangerous territory and the sites universally agree that you “must consult a hair care professional” which I had no intention of doing, since I considered myself sort of an amateur hair care professional, albeit one who had only seen two colors applied and hadn’t actually done it.

My unhelpful research took so long that I only had an hour to slather on the masque and figure out the hair color technique before I had to pick up carpool.

I had chosen Hot Toffee as my darker color because according to the colors and descriptions on the boxes, it seemed very similar to Creme Brulee and I thought it would match well without being too much darker than the rest of my hair.

In case you don’t know much about brownish desserts, here’s a picture of Creme Brulee:


Here’s what toffee looks like:


When I mixed up the dye, however, I was shocked by the color.


That’s my beloved Creme Brulee on the left and Hot Toffee on the right. Hot Toffee my ass. That dye could be called “Hot Chocolate Pudding” or “Melted Devil’s Food Cake” or “Tepid Tootsie Roll” but it was dark as hell and frankly, it scared me. Until I saw it, I’d figured that if I ran short on time I’d do my whole head Hot Toffee, but now that wasn’t looking like a viable option. It may be close to Halloween, but if I want to look like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark:

then I’ll go buy a wig. And I like that one slow song Amy Lee of Evanescence sang a couple of years ago, but that doesn’t mean I want to dye my hair in homage (even though I wouldn’t mind knowing what shade of lipstick she’s wearing):


I decided to go along with my original plan of using both colors. If I ended up looking like a zebra I’d wear a scarf for a day while I decided which color was better, and dye my whole head the more flattering shade.

The dying began. At first I tried to copy proper salon technique as I had witnessed it, which is to stick a piece of foil under the hair to be colored, paint the dye on the hair, then fold up the foil to keep the darker dye from getting on the rest of my hair, like so:

hair foils foilsperfect

While a hair care professional can make this maneuver look relatively simple, I quickly discovered that it was damn unreasonable to expect an amateur to try to isolate small pieces of hair on her own head, secure the foil, use the brush, and so forth. I can’t blame the awkwardness on my bum wrist or my unfamiliarity with the technique. It was apparent immediately that even Paul Mitchell, John Freida or the Bumbles would need a friend to accomplish this task satisfactorily, especially if the back of the head is involved.

At that point I quit using the brush and resorted to dipping my fingers in the inky gel, grabbing small pieces of hair and covering them with the dye. As I finished each one I squinched a piece of foil around it so that it looked like a piece of Christmas candy. A piece of buttery toffee.

When I’d had enough of that, I switched to the Creme Brulee dye which I spread liberally over the rest of my hair and rubbed into my roots. Then I stood back to gauge the effect.


Honestly, I’ve looked better. For the sake of my vanity, I’ll take this opportunity to remind you of that, because there’s at least one equally unflattering picture of me coming up and I don’t know that I can stand it.

(To justify the use of this photo, let me point out that this is an excellent example of Creme Brulee hair contrasting with emerald green grass and crisp white clothes.)

I decided to unwrap my toffees and see exactly how dark they were getting. They were getting this dark:


The photo may not show the dark strands to be as scary as they really were, but surely you can see the hunk of brown hair balanced precariously on top of my head. Beauty alert!

I may be adventuresome, but I’m no fool, and I saw a disaster in the making. I wasn’t about to leave that combination on my hair for twenty-five minutes. It was fine to talk about looking like a zebra when it was an abstract concept, but now that it seemed to be approaching reality it was time to throw in the towel, so to speak.

I stepped in the shower immediately and rinsed out my hair. The dye, masque, my facial impurities and tension rinsed off all at the same time, so at least my hour of beauty had not been a complete waste.

Today my hair looks much the same. I still have roots, but I fancy they are not quite as noticeable because I do have a few strands of hair here and there that are darker than others. Actually, it appears that the Hot Toffee dye wasn’t going to turn out Elvira-ish. It might even have been pretty if I hadn’t been a chicken and let it process the full time.

In this case, better a chicken than a zebra.

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 6:45 pmSuffering for BeautyComments are off  

September 17, 2006

In Which I Declare Myself The Victor In The Breast Wars

Here’s a multiple choice test to get you in the mood for today’s column. If you saw this, what would you do?


1. Grab a frying pan, a mallet, butter, capers, lemon juice, and wine and make a delicious chicken piccata.

2. Say, “Modern art doesn’t interest me very much, but I hear there’s a fabulous new lunch place down the street.”

3. Slap those suckers on your chest and strut your stuff like Dolly Parton.

All are good answers, but in my world, the correct answer is 3.

Behold: the NuBra.

Those of you who have been keeping up with the replica of my breast I made out of food and the embarrassment I suffered when I tried on approximately forty bras with Bill’s help due to a roller-blading accident (rather than privately as I had planned) will be happy to hear that the Breast Wars are over.

First, a little background on my bra situation prior to the beginning of the wars. Before I discovered that there is a bra for women like me (women with itty-bitty titties topped with fireplug nipples), I was resigned to the fact that if I wanted a bra that actually fit, I’d be wearing two triangles of fabric with a little rosebud centered between them. This is the kind of bra you buy in the preteen section at Macy’s–the ones where the package shows some girls at a sleepover painting each others’ nails. When the wars began, at a minimum I hoped to purchase a bra from the women’s department bearing a tag that pictured an actual grownup wearing the bra (preferably a woman).

The best solution I had found to hide my perma-nips was the NuBra, which is a sticky, gel-like breast form you stick on top of your boobs. You can use it as a regular bra or a strapless bra, if you’re small-breasted, like me. As long as you wash it off after each use, you can wear it over and over.

The NuBra has two drawbacks. One is that it’s funny looking, which is why Bill often says,”You wearing those chicken breasts out tonight?”

The other is that the forms don’t stick so well when you have sweaty boobs.

Aunt Lulu had a lovely outdoor wedding on a sweltering day in May 2004. In Alabama. Here is a picture of me just before the ceremony, when both sides of my NuBra were firmly attached to my breasts, sort of filling up the front of my extremely pink dress.


There were four bridesmaids, and we all stood in the searing sun wearing our chicken breasts as Aunt Lulu and her husband promised and vowed. Just as I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back, I heard a thwa-kink! and another thwa-kink! and I realized that my NuBra had popped off and was nestling in the band of my dress between my boobs and my stomach. A moment later I heard several fainter, but unmistakable thwa-kinks! on both sides of me, and soon there were four bridesmaids standing up front with eight uncovered nipples in thin Pepto dresses. We walked down the aisle with our NuBras lying limply at the bottom of the bodice of our dresses.

I tried to stick it back on several times, but it was a hot day and I was dancing and sweaty and therefore unsuccessful. Here’s a picture of me later, after I stuffed the chicken breasts in my purse and resolved to party all night, regardless of nipple protrusion.

nubraoff1 “My dress is caving in and I don’t care! Cheers to Aunt Lulu!”

So the NuBra is good, but not great in my climate. A real bra that fastens with straps and snaps would have been helpful in that circumstance.

Another recent discovery I’ve made is this product:

Low Beams are basically flower-shaped band-aids that you put on your bosoms to paste your nipples down. They certainly flatten my Tootsie Rolls, but they don’t add any fluffiness to my pancake. And at $9 for 5 pair, I find them pricey. I do like the package, though, which has a key ring and the slogan “Headlights are for cars.”

Because neither the NuBra nor the Low Beams fully met my boobie needs, I whiled away an afternoon at a lingerie shop while I was in New York waiting on Aunt Lulu to have her large bundle of joy. There an elderly woman measured me and pronounced me a 34AA, not a 36AA as the last three “breast experts” had. My bust size is difficult to assess, not because I’m uncooperative or unduly modest, but because I have a hump under my right shoulder blade because of my scoliosis, and even my second spine surgery didn’t reduce it. Apparently I stood different ways for the various women who measured me and that accounted for the discrepancy in the calculations.

The difference between a 34 and a 36 mattered because the cups in a 34AA are smaller than those in a 36AA, and tinier cups were exactly what I needed, as I illustrated with fruit in the second part of my description of the wars.

Once I had the correct numbers and letters to work with, the sales lady advised me that Wacoal is great with petite bras, and her suggestions were right on the money.

To my great delight, I arrived home with five bras that fit.

I bought this bra in ivory and nude:


You can just take my word for it that it doesn’t mush in if you press on it, and there’s no extra room for an avocado or turnip in the cup.

Then I bought this bra because it has a bow:


You do remember that Bill has a thing for bows, don’t you?

That’s why I think he’ll go wild for this bra, which I bought in nude and black:


That’s not just a bow; it’s a lace-up mini-corset looking thing, which is far sexier than anything I’ve ever worn on a bra before. I don’t think this ad gives you a true picture of the vixenish quality of this brassiere. For a lady used to slapping silicone chicken breasts on her front and calling it a day, this is a definite improvement.

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 2:57 pmFashion: Turn To The Left!,Suffering for BeautyNo comments  

August 7, 2006

The Breast Wars: Part I– I Devise A Winning Strategy

Picture an average pancake, sitting on a plate. Now think about the tiny Tootsie Rolls people give out on Halloween. Cut one in half cross wise. Put a dot of syrup in the middle of the pancake and place the Tootsie Roll on it like a rocket. When you are finished, you will have made an extremely realistic (and edible!) model of one of my breasts. It should look like this:

topview (front view)
sideview (side view)

(I could have made this a little thinner to more accurately represent my breast, but I didn’t want to burn it.)

I read a lot of Renaissance poetry in college, and poets always described bosoms as “orbs” or “globes” in recognition of the fact that the area supporting the nipple is usually three dimensional and round, like a baseball or a cantaloupe. I have yet to find a poet who says:

For gladly would I give up burritos, and water, and coins
In exchange for your smooth, flat bosom, so like a compact disc
That plays the music of the fire in my loins.

Unfortunately, bra makers also seem to think that all bra-wearers have round boobs, not pancakes topped with a Tootsie Roll. Finding a bra that fits me is even harder than getting all my laundry folded. I can go braless, but then I flash headlights regardless of the temperature. Bill doesn’t object to this, but in the Tiny Kingdom you can’t exactly hang out by the frozen foods at Publix with your party hats on and not expect to start a rumor that your marriage is on the rocks and you’re trolling for men by the DiGiorno pizzas.

Last week I decided to tackle my titty problem directly. I paid off my American Express bill, then sat at the computer to find the perfect bra, one that doesn’t crumple from unused space, that doesn’t chafe with prison-quality underwire, and most importantly, one that provides a smooth silhouette, with no wrinkles or obvious nipple.

I found, which had a huge selection. I ordered a wide variety of 36A bras, ranging from the $20 Warner’s “Be Flirty” to the $127 La Perla “Vintage Contour Bra.” (I figured if it was the magic bra, I’d just buy one and wash it out every other day or so and maybe wear Band-aids every once in a while to save wear and tear.)

Then, because I was already on the site, I ordered some new underwear as well, because mine are getting ratty. I had already ordered Bill fancy new underwear and undershirts from Nordstrom, and I figured that I deserved the same level of undergarments.

Many clicks and dollars later, my order was complete. The boxes would be delivered in a couple of days, I’d try on all the bras and underwear in private, then ship the rejects back quickly so my credit card could be credited.

The next day was a busy one. Drew and Porter had spent the night at camp, and Finn was sleeping late, so I headed to Jazzercise before I ran errands to get ready for the beach. We were leaving the next day and I had to get decorations for Bill’s 40th birthday, beach toys, and groceries.

While I was doing rock-claps to “It’s Raining Men” my cell phone rang. I answered it, panting, and heard a teenager on the other end of the line calling from camp to tell me that Drew was vomiting and needed to be picked up. I estimated that I was thirty minutes from camp.

“It will take me at least forty minutes to get there,” I told the counselor. “I’m on my way.”

I ran to the minivan and headed up the highway, making only an eight minute detour to purchase some decorations for Bill’s 40th birthday party, which would take place at the beach. I wasn’t at all confident that I could find what I needed once I left the city.

Drew wasn’t looking so bad when I picked him up. I let him drink a couple of sips of water as we headed home on the crowded highway. Moments later, he made a choking sound, and then I heard splattering. He threw up twice more on the way home, and we stopped each time to clean out the van. By the time we got home, Drew was pale and trembling.

I bathed him and tucked him in bed. I surveyed the van, which reeked. I sprayed rug cleaner liberally over the affected parts and decided to opt for the “let it soak in” method of cleaning. The van had to be sparkling and the smell at least tolerable by the next morning, when we’d be pulling out and heading toward the ocean.

With Drew consigned to bed, my day of running pre-vacation errands was shot. I headed to the computer to pay bills. The phone rang.

“This Geneva, from Bare Necessities,” a woman said. “You get our email about you order?”

“No, I haven’t had time to check emails today,” I said.

“Ah. Well, because you are new customer, and because of size of order, we must needs to check your credit card information more exactly. Can you send us copy of you drivers license, front and back, and credit card, front and back?”

I looked at my caller ID. Geneva was calling from Bare Necessitites.

“Certainly,” I said. I got her phone number and email address and hung up.

As I prepared to scan the information, I realized that I had put the order on my American Express. I believe that card is somewhere here in the room near our computer, and I’ve kept a close eye on the account, so I know no one else is using it, but I haven’t actually seen the card in over a year. I just have the numbers and expiration date and I use it for ordering online. There was no way I was going to be able to send Geneva a copy of the American Express.

Instead, I retrieved my Mastercard, and sent it. I emailed all the information, and included a note explaining that I had substituted one credit card for another.

Moments later the phone rang again. It was Geneva.

“I get you email,” she said. “But I cannot put order on new card. System will not let me do. You cannot send me the American Express?”

“No,” I said truthfully. I didn’t want to tell her I didn’t actually have it, so I said, “you see, one of my twins is throwing up, and I’m not at the office today, and I don’t have the American Express with me. I have this problem with my bosoms– they’re just so tiny and flat, but my nipples are really protrusive, and I can’t find a bra that really fits me, and your company looked like it had a good selection, so I was ordering a variety of 36As to see if I could find the perfect bra. And then I decided maybe I deserved some nice underwear. But really, I’m almost forty, and I’ve dealt with it this long, so maybe you should just cancel the order. I’m not going to be able to leave the house, and I’m leaving town in the morning.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, and then Geneva said, “I talk to manager and call you back.”

I barely had time to check on Drew before the phone rang again and Tatiana was on the phone. “Geneva tells me you have uncommon breasts,” she said.

I’ve seen a lot of naked ladies in my day, and I’ve never seen anyone with boobs like mine, so that seemed like a fair assumption. “I guess you could say that,” I agreed.

“I am sure Bare Necessities will be able to provide a bra that fits you,” Tatiana said smoothly. “We were able to confirm that the names and addresses on your American Express and Mastercard matched, so I have simply canceled the order from your American Express and reordered it on your Mastercard. Will that be satisfactory to you?”

“Sure,” I said. “I certainly appreciate your going to all that trouble.”

“It is our pleasure at Bare Necessities,” Tatiana replied. “Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

The customer service at Bare Necessities certainly put me in a good mood, which was just as well, because I still had to pack for the beach, clean the van, and tend to Drew.

By the time Bill got home, I was bone-weary.

“You seem quiet,” Bill remarked.

I told him about Drew, the vomit, and the rest of the day, which included a tearful goodbye to Finn’s best friend, who was moving to Tennessee, Porter’s return from camp, apparently germ-free, and the creation of piles of beach clothes for each boy, neatly laid out in the den.

Then I told him what was really on my mind.

“Honey, today a lady who knows a lot about bosoms told me I had ‘uncommon breasts,'” I said.

“As in uncommonly small?” Bill asked. “I’d say she’s right on the money. We’ve always said that when we got married, you gave up long haired men and I gave up big titty women.”

“Yeah, but you could grow long hair if you wanted to,” I pointed out.

“Don’t go worrying about your boobs, honey,” Bill said. He handed me a glass. “Drink this gin and tonic.”

Then he slapped me on the bottom.

“Besides, I married you for your ass, not your tits, honey.”

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 11:21 amGlamorous Escapades,Suffering for BeautyComments are off  

May 9, 2006

Tiny Kingdom Exclusive: Anne Glamore– Fashion Star!!!


Only The Tiny Kingdom has the exciting details of Anne Glamore’s recent fashion shoot for an important online publication!

Who Anne Glamore, 39

Hometown Tiny Kingdom, Alabama

The Shoot Anne copied a pose made famous by the ever-energetic Angelina Jolie in an attempt to show that real mothers can look just like celebrity moms!! We think she succeeded!!!

Arrived In Her Jazzercise clothes she’d been wearing since 8 am that morning. She didn’t have time to shower but she put on extra deodorant.

Clothes Call Her own white camisole and jeans. She even did her own makeup!

Location, Location Anne didn’t have to travel far for the shoot– it took place in her own yard on a patch of grass by the mailbox.

Faster than a speeding bullet Many Hollywood stars spend an entire day working on the perfect picture
to grace the cover of a magazine. Not our Anne! From the time she
thought up the idea until she had the perfect photograph, only 31 minutes elapsed.
Coincidentally, that was exactly the amount of time this superwoman had available
in her busy schedule between picking up the carpool and taking Finn to

Last minute switcheroo Her original photographer, Finn, took one look at the picture of Angelina, pronounced it “freaky,” and ran off to play basketball. Fortunately, Chatty Mom came by to borrow some basil and was able to take six shots using an unfamiliar camera before she had to dash.

Behind the scenes tricks Chatty Mom had to stand on the recycling bin to get the perfect shot! As Anne posed, she discovered she was lying on an ant pile, so in the picture she actually has an old holey sheet tucked under her back!!!!

Food and Fashion Anne requested oysters, pink jellybeans and mango juice, but no catering crew was available. She was spotted nibbling a few of Drew’s Cheez-Its between takes.

Tunes Porter roller bladed in the driveway singing “Man, I Feel Like A Woman” while Anne tried to copy Angelina’s pout!

Look for Anne’s picture to be out soon!!

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 3:07 pmGlamorous Escapades,Suffering for BeautyNo comments  

January 30, 2006

Operation Acne Attack

Just before Christmas Finn got contacts. For the first week or so I helped him put them in. One day while I was grabbing his eyelashes with one finger and pulling down his bottom eyelid with the other, I got a close-up look at his face and I nearly dropped the Acuvue lens. Sprinkled around the top of his nose I saw several whiteheads. I shuddered.

“Mom!” Finn yelled. “What are you doing? You’re poking my eye!”

He was right. His contact was sitting firmly on his eyeball, anchored in place by my finger, which I had forgotten to remove while I contemplated his inevitable journey through Clearasil, Buf-Pufs, dermatologist visits and shame.

I took my fingers out of his eyes and held his head in my hands. “Let me see your face,” I commanded. I counted about ten bumps in all. I ran my finger over them, and I could feel them under the surface of his skin. It was undeniable; acne was trying to force its way into my ten year old’s body. I vowed to protect him. I’m convinced that with enough chemicals and willpower, a boy can successfully
avoid suffering from more than a couple of full fledged pimples during adolescence.

As a preliminary step, it was important to know whether Bill would be on my side or not in the fight. That night I asked, “Honey, you had acne when you were a teenager, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Well there was one girl in my class with long blonde hair who always had dates and I never saw her with a pimple. She was very popular. She was an only child, too, so I figured she and her mom spent a lot of time on skin care after school.”

“Why are we talking about zits?” he asked, finally looking up from the deposition he was reading. “Last night we forgot to be the tooth fairy for Drew, and now you’re switching to pimples. I think you should stay focused on the problems we already have, not problems we’re going to have in a couple of years. Let’s take them one at a time.”

“Well, Finn is showing signs of pre-acne,” I said. “I think we should attack it now.”

“I have never heard of ‘pre-acne’ in my life,” Bill said. “Is that a condition unique to the Tiny Kingdom?” As if kids don’t suffer from pre-acne in Lower Alabama, where he was raised. I thought about and decided against having Bill examine Finn’s whiteheads; they were too subtle for a man who’d already declared himself skeptical of the existence of such a condition to see.

“So you definitely think Finn is going to have acne?” I asked, getting to the meat of the matter.

“I’m damn sure of it,” Bill said.

“Even if we start a quality skin care regime now and prevent any acne from ever forming?” I asked hopefully.

“Not a chance that will work,” he said firmly.

“All right then,” I said. I knew where he stood. Finn and I would engage in Operation Acne Attack alone.

It’s always important to make sure that the troops are fired up to fight the enemy, so the next day I called Finn down to the computer to show him some pictures of people with acne so he would know the monster we were up against. Now, I wasn’t going to show him the best case scenario, like Hillary Duff with a small blemish. That wouldn’t grab his attention. I wanted to show him something horrific, like this.

“Gnarly, dude!” Finn said after he looked at the screen. “I’ve seen people like that. Do I have that?”

“Not yet,” I said solemnly. “And with God’s help, good cleansing and probably a top-notch dermatologist, you won’t have that. But we’ve got to make a plan, and we’ve got to stick to the plan. Cool?”

“Cool,” Finn agreed.

“Most guys don’t have to start paying attention to their faces until they’re a little older, but I guess you’re just really masculine for your age,” I said.

“I think that’s probably right,” Finn agreed.

“So, we’ll keep this quiet, just between you and me. Your friends don’t need to know what you do in the bathroom, because that’s where you go to do private things anyway, like fart and pick your nose, right?”

“Right,” Finn said.

“And let’s not mention it to Daddy, either,” I continued. “We’ll make it a surprise. He’ll expect you to wake up one day with a lot of zits and it will never happen!”

I decided to start slowly. I bought Finn some Cetaphil and made sure he had a good supply of wash cloths. I showed him how to wash his face, especially around his nose. His hair is longish (it’s part of being a drummer) so it kept getting in his eyes as he washed. I only knew one solution to this problem. You see, women have to pull their hair back while they wash their faces, like this.

Instead of using a satiny blue headband to hold back my hair, though, I just twist the front part up into an old plastic clip and start washing. I got Finn a clip and recommended that he do the same, but I told him he might want to lock the bathroom door while he washed his face to avoid having to answer awkward questions from other family members who didn’t fully appreciate the challenge we were taking on.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Finn said, laughing. “I would never put this clip on my head if I thought anyone could see me.”

Three weeks passed since I had seen Finn’s skin up close, as he’d been getting his contacts in easily without my help. I checked his face, and to my horror, it appeared that he had twelve bumps instead of ten. I tried not to let Finn hear the panic in my voice as I said,” You know, sometimes guys have to try several cleansers before they find the one that is right for them. I’m going to get you something a little stronger and manlier.”

I got some Clearasil Icewash at Publix, figuring that we needed to add a little salicylic acid to the mix to annihilate the spots. Finn started using that when he showered instead of the Cetaphil.

Last night we conducted another check. His skin seemed to have cleared up some– I could only count five little bumps. On the down side, his face was getting a little dry and he complained that it itched, so I called him into my bathroom to give him some Oil of Olay.

“You can just keep it in your bathroom and use it when your face is dry,” I said. “I have plenty of other moisturizers.”

“Cool,” he said, and he walked out of the bathroom clutching the bottle of Oil of Olay, just as Bill walked in the room. It felt very deja vu but fortunately Bill didn’t notice his son carrying a bottle of women’s face lotion.

Glamores 1, Acne 0.

And the fight continues.

Posted by Anne Glamore @ 1:42 pmInventions, Creations, Experiments,Suffering for Beauty1 comment  

Welcome to the Kingdom

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I'm Anne Glamore, wife, mother, lawyer and blogger. I have three boys, and I'm desperately trying to train them to become Southern gentlemen, but that may be an unrealistic goal. At this point I'd be ecstatic if they'd quit farting at the dinner table. If you're new here, check out the Readers' Favorite Posts below or browse through the Categories. I write about my attempts to teach the boys about peckers and sex (which we call "making googly eyes"), my struggles with hepatitis C and spine surgery, the boys' adventures with fire and pets, my mom's death from ovarian cancer, my love of cooking (with plenty of recipes) and anything else that crosses my mind. Join me on Twitter or StumbleUpon or Email me. I'm happy to speak to your group or club.

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