The bad thing about getting drunk…

I haven’t talked about anxiety in awhile, and when I first thought about writing this post, I nixed it as a dumb idea.  Then I decided that maybe I should put on my big girl panties and get over it.  You see, I used to say that if writing about my experiences helped someone cope with their own issues, or at least let them know they were not alone, then it was worth the discomfort I felt about publishing it.  I never actually believed anyone was reading those posts though, but as it turns out, they were. If it means something to one other person out there, then it’s worth it.  So…

Since I haven’t mentioned my anxiety in awhile, you may think it went away.  I wish!  I was on prescription medication for it for about three years, but one of the side effects was it made me fat and lethargic, so I decided it was time to try to exist without it.  That was about two years ago, and since then I’ve gotten by on herbal supplements, meditation, and pure German stubbornness.  It’s not the best scenario for someone who has to deal with anxiety, but it is what it is.  At least I don’t fall asleep while eating dinner anymore, and that’s a plus in my book.

Since I stopped taking anti-anxiety medication, it has been slowly increasing with each of life’s traumatic event’s that pass my way.  John’s dad’s passing, quickly followed by Tiana’s spinal fusion, got it rolling on the tracks like a freight train, and it’s just been gaining momentum since then.

Recently, after a ton of debate and discussion, John and I made the decision to open a nail salon, and with that decision my sanity went screaming out the door.  My anxiety is now nearly completely in control of my brain function, and it’s a speeding train charging downhill.  I just hope it runs into an incline to slow it down soon; hopefully before it hits a sharp curve and completely derails my life.

So, the other day I decided to imbibe in an adult beverage.  Alcohol is a great relaxant, and if you’re familiar with the pain caused by muscle tension that comes with anxiety, you probably also know that a couple of drinks relieves it almost immediately.  It’s probably why so many people with anxiety and depression end up with alcohol addictions.  Luckily that’s not a problem for me; I hate losing control way more than I hate feeling anxious all of the time.  So getting drunk on a regular basis is never going to be the cure for my crazy.

Anyway, as I felt the tension run out of my neck, I relaxed into the sofa, and thought how nice it was to have a reminder that the pain wasn’t real. I don’t have some weird neck cancer that’s preventing me from turning my head to the right.  It’s just muscle pain that would go away if I could ever find a way to relax enough to let it.

Then, after a couple of drinks I had effectively bound and gagged my anxiety.  It was now crouched in the corner, slobbering around the big red ball gag in its mouth, whimpering like the little bitch it was.  The problem with that is my anxiety takes up a lot of space in my consciousness, and when you remove it, it leaves a vacuum.  That space must be filled with something…

“Oh, hello self-loathing, haven’t seen you around these parts in awhile.  Can’t say I missed you very much, but hey, as long as you’re here you might as well settle in and destroy my self worth for a few hours.  It’s ok, I have the time.”

Apparently I only have two modes currently, anxious or depressed.  Yay me!

So, as it turns out, the great thing about getting drunk is that it eases the physical pain caused by anxiety.  The bad thing about getting drunk is that it ushers in the self loathing often caused by anxiety.  It’s a lose-lose kind of thing…

Now, these posts always come out sounding so depressing, and that’s really not my intent.  Don’t feel sorry for me, I’ll be ok. I still get up every day, get dressed, and do what I have to do. I know this won’t last forever, at least not at this level. I constantly remind myself that I am not the sum of my crazy, and I won’t let anxiety define me. So I keep moving, keep active, and keep reminding myself that this too shall pass.  I still feel joy, I laugh with the kids and John daily, and I’m really good at making fun of my own dysfunction. 

The point is that if you struggle with anxiety, or depression, alcohol is not a cure; it only makes it worse.  Neither will drugs, illicit or prescription, ease your pain.  Those are stop gap measures, to help you cope for a single moment in time, not a cure, and if you rely on them without addressing the root of your anxiety, they will only increase the problem.

So what’s a serotonin imbalanced person to do?  Look beyond the easy fix.  Get off your ass and get moving.  Exercise helps tremendously, it spurs your brain to release chemicals that counteract the serotonin, and within days of starting even a light exercise regime, you will feel miles better.  Don’t give into the urge to stay in bed, no matter how much it feels like you can’t face the day.  Inactivity only compounds anxiety and depression, get up, get dressed, I promise you’ll feel better.

Additionally, look into Mindfulness Meditation Therapy.  Standard therapy practices don’t work terribly well for people with general anxiety disorders because there is no way to confront a non-specific fear, especially if that fear changes from day to day.  So traditional cognitive therapy is a complete and total bust for people like myself.  Mindfulness Meditation Therapy can help you address your anxiety instead of trying to push it into the back of your mind.  Once you confront it, and stop trying to hide it, it looses its potency and becomes much easier to manage.

Life is a freight train, barreling down the tracks, and we’re just strapped in for the ride.  Some days it feels that there are more downhill, out of control stretches than ups, but be aware that it’s impossible to fall forever, and no, that doesn’t mean you’re going to crash at the bottom.  The track will turn, and you will level out.  Today may be a bad day for you, tomorrow may be worse, but the day after that you may see a glimmer of hope. 

It gets better; I promise.

Hugs,

Setbacks at the Salon

First, let me write a short summary for the one or possibly two people who read this blog and aren’t facebook friends with me.  As you may have surmised from previous posts, I am a licensed nail technician.  Unfortunately, it didn’t take me long in the beauty industry to realize that I’d rather force toothpicks under my toenails then work at about 98.53% of the salons out there.  So, the great journey to become an entrepreneur began.

About a month ago I found a commercial space that had potential, and more importantly, was the right price.  You can see pictures of the place on my facebook page here:  Building a Salon

 

So, the big day arrived on Saturday.  The realtor finally had the approval on her end, and it was time to sign a pre-lease, and get a key to the shop. 

There have been plenty of setbacks since our original meeting with her.  The building, which sat unoccupied for over three years, had some water damage from a leak in the roof.  The roof had been replaced, and then it was ripped off in a storm about a week ago and repaired again.  There’s still a lot of work that needs to be done in the back end of the building, but at least we could get started on the work we need to do in our suite at the front.

We met the agent, she let us into the building, and we were immediately assaulted by a pungent damp smell that hadn’t been there on our previous visits.  Not only that, but there was a huge puddle on the floor in the back hallway.  The realtor was dismayed to say the least; that roof has been a real thorn in her side it seems, but she called the roofing company while we were there with her, and assured us that someone would be out to see what was going on by the end of the day.

When we went into my suite, we saw that they had installed a sink, unfortunately not in the location where I had expected it to be installed, but whatever.  You live and adapt, right?  What was more concerning to me, was that there was mold where they had removed the wainscoting to put in the sink.

John and I discussed the implications a little bit, and I rubbed at a spot with the toe of my shoe.  It rubbed right off, and was clean underneath, so I decided I wasn’t too concerned.  It looked like it was all on the surface, probably brought on by the recent extended troubles with the roof.  I made plans to bring in some bleach to scrub the walls, and didn’t think too much more about it.

Let me just say here (because I know what you’re thinking), that I’m not a complete moron: I’m only about 78%…  My prelease has a condition that if I cannot get licensed by the State Cosmetology Board for any reason, I get to walk away with all of my money refunded, every penny of it; no penalties, no obligations.  Keep that in mind as you continue reading, because I’m not as screwed as I could be.  My leasing agent wants to keep me happy because she really doesn’t want to give back the hefty check I just wrote her. 

So, we went over the terms of the lease, and I made sure the agent understood and was OK with my plans to basically gut the place.  The lease was signed, and I got my key.

Yay, I’m now a commercial property lessee!

The next morning, we gave showering a pass, and went over to the salon for some demolition and cleaning, wearing our grubbiest clothing.  My super-awesome friend Lisa met us there, because she takes hallucinogens  is completely off her nut volunteered to help me scrub the moldy wall.

The first roadblock we hit was when we realized that the water hadn’t been turned on in the building yet.  It’s kind of hard to wash the walls without it.  So, John made a run home for a few gallons of hot water to fill our buckets with.

Then, as more pieces of wainscoting started coming down, I realized the enormity of the problem.  The mold spans the lower half of an entire wall, as well as other spots here and there throughout the suite.  Our efforts to scrub and bleach it off the walls, proved that it wasn’t just on the surface.  It penetrates the gypsum, and has been there for awhile, hidden under the wainscoting and pegboard that covered the walls of the suite.  The recent bout of flooding from the roof just infused it with a new lease on life.

We discussed the problem, after an hour of hard scrubbing and bleaching just left a nasty smear on the drywall, and decided it all needed to be torn out.  The problem with that plan of action is that the newly installed sink will need to be taken down so that the wall it’s mounted on can be removed.

As we were looking under the sink to see if we’d need to call in the pros for that job, it struck me…  The plumber had bolted the sink to a moldy wall!  He didn’t wipe it off, didn’t do anything to remove the mold.  He just slapped a shiny new sink against a smelly, wet, disgusting wall!  Who does that?  What the…  ?!?!?

Anyway, while I was still trying to wrap my brain around the logic of bolting a brand new sink against a moldy wall, John decided it was time to call the agent.  The skies had grown rather ominous while we were working, and he stepped out into the hallway to go out and take a look while he made the call.  As I was still staring at the sink sputtering about incompetent contractors, I heard John call to me…

“Hey Anne!”

“Why wouldn’t they at least wipe the mold off?  Make a teeny tiny bit of effort to do the job right?!?!?”

“Anne!”

“What?”

“It’s raining in the hallway.”

"It’s raining in the…  What?!?!”

I bolted out the door of the suite to see a waterfall in the back of the building.  The leaky, but supposedly just repaired, roof was putting out more water than my showerhead does. 

I picked my jaw up off the floor and thought that if I closed my eyes and laid down in the hall, perhaps I could wake up in my bed two days ago.  Please, let this just be an anxiety induced dream, spawned from my inherent fear of failure.

The puddle in the hall started to soak through my shoes and I knew that while this was a nightmare, it was not a dream.

Life, it appears, can never ever be easy.

So what did we do?  John called the agent like he’d planned, made her aware of the new water feature the building was spawning, and told her about the mold issues, and what that meant on our end.  We continued the demo, but stopped bothering trying to clean the mold away.  It will come down with the drywall.

Meanwhile, John and I have discussed our plan of action.  I can’t get licensed if there’s even a hint of mold in the building.  I’m not selling trinkets in a shop, I’m doing things to the human body that can put them at risk if my shop isn’t spic and span.  Mold does not have a place anywhere near my salon.  We need to make sure our agent understands that, and is prepared to go to the expense of cleaning down the entire building, not just my suite, so that I’ll be able to run a safe and healthy salon.  If she’s not, then I take that escape clause I mentioned a page or so ago.

While we wait to see what she’s going to do, we’re still demoing, but not constructing at all.  We’ll tear down to the point where we’re ready to rebuild, and stop, if we need to, until she completes the repairs and decontamination.

Before

 

After

Before

After

Before

After

A little bit of icky mold in the last picture.  The wall behind where I’m standing to take the picture it is the worst of the bunch and the one that needs to be completely ripped out.

So, while we’ve made a lot of progress in the last couple of days, I’m not sure if we’re actually getting anywhere yet. That’s ok though, I’ve waited this long, I can wait a little longer.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to evolved and adapt, and not take this kind of thing too seriously.  It will all work out in the end, one way or another.

Hugs,

Choking PSA

No, this post isn’t a primer on how to choke someone who’s annoying you, though I know we all have someone we’d like to try that maneuver on.  It’s a reminder that life isn’t predictable, things happen fast, and if you’re not prepared, you’re screwed.

First and foremost, before you even read this post, if you don’t know basic First Aid and CPR, go read this:  Life Saving Basics

When you’re done, come back and read my post, then go enroll in the next class you’re able to attend.  You may never, ever need to use these skills, but if you’re called upon to save someone’s life and you don’t have them, you will always regret it.

 

I was twelve when I got my first Red Cross First Aid and CPR certifications.  I went to summer camp where I tested out of the swimming classes they offered.  So, instead, they put me into lifeguard training classes with some of the older kids. 

I’ve mostly kept my certifications up to date throughout the years. Between having young kids, and working in a few different nursing homes, I’ve either needed them to be current, or it just seemed like a really good idea.  Let’s face it, if you’re a parent, you know the importance of first aid. As a mom or dad you need to know when a kiss and a band-aid will do, or when to run to the ER for stitches. You should know how to preserve a tooth that’s been knocked out, or an arm that’s been lopped off.  Last but not least, you absolutely have to know how to save your child’s life with CPR or the Heimlich, while you pray to God you’ll never have to.

Not too long ago a friend of mine had a choking emergency with one of her kids.  Her child began to choke at the dinner table, panicked and ran from the room.  She was lucky enough that someone realized what was happening, and she survived the experience frightened but ok.  My friend used the opportunity to tell all of us to make sure our kids knew what to do in a choking emergency: to remain calm, and find an adult.

Never have I ever been so thankful for my training, and a little bit of friendly advice than I am today.

This morning I woke up Jenna and we went about our normal routine.  She got some cereal to eat for breakfast, and I stumbled into the office to check my email and other messages with a cup of coffee to keep me company.  Neither she nor I even resemble human in the morning, so to avoid any undue stress or confrontations, we have a non-verbal agreement to leave each other alone for about twenty minutes while we wake up. 

This morning was no different than any other, except that Jenna had started nursing a cold over the weekend, so I listened to her cough and snuffle, and wondered if she was going to be able to make it through a day at school without being sent home.  Then I heard her footsteps behind me…

I turned to find her clutching her chest, eyes wild, and NOT BREATHING!

“Are you choking?” I asked, and she nodded.

“Can you breathe at all?” I asked, while my heart started to pound.  She shook her head no.

I was already on my feet, though I don’t remember getting up.  I grabbed her, turned her around, and started to perform the Heimlich.

Time slowed, or my sluggish brain sped up, and I could almost see the first aid manual in front of me as I remembered what to do.  I felt along her ribcage to find the base of her sternum, placed two fingers from my right hand under it, and my left fist below them.  Please don’t let me break her ribs, I prayed silently. Then I grabbed the fist with with my other hand, and gave two sharp quick pulls in and up against her diaphragm, just as I’d been taught.

I paused a moment, listening to hear if she was moving any air, trying to remember where the cordless phone was, and at what point I was supposed to call 911 if I couldn’t get her to breathe.  She was still choking and I had a instant of despair thinking it wasn’t going to work, it had been too long since I’d taken a class, my technique was probably all wrong.

Another pull and a pause; still nothing.  One more; please breathe baby. Mommy will buy you a pony if you want, just as long as I don’t have to watch you die today.

One more quick pull, and the sweet sound of coughing and gagging filled my ears.  I’ve never been so happy to hear my child retch before.

We collapsed into a nearby chair, and I held her while we both cried.  My hands started to shake as I stroked her hair and told her how proud I was that she did exactly the right things, even though I knew how scared she must have been.

I calmed her down, bundled her up on the couch with a blanket, and went upstairs, under the pretense of getting dressed, to have a quiet nervous break down.

People tend to think that because of my anxiety disorder I’m prone to panic in an emergency. It’s actually just the opposite. I do quite well under pressure, I’m not afraid of blood, and I’m well trained. It’s not until afterwards that I start to feel sick and panicky.

Things could have easily turned out differently this morning.  If my friend hadn’t told me to talk to my kids about what to do in just that circumstance, Jenna could have choked to death in the other room, unable to call for help, with me sitting just a few feet away.  If I hadn’t taken several first aid classes over the years, I may not have known the proper way to apply the Heimlich Maneuver.  I could have done it incorrectly and crushed her ribcage or punctured a lung trying to save her life.

We do a lot of things for our kids, little things, big things, silly things and annoying things.  Today do the most important thing for them that you may never actually need.  Learn how to save their life, and teach them how to safe themselves. 

Talk to your kids, tell them that if they should ever start to choke, to try and remain calm, find an adult, and signal them by placing their hands to their throats in the universal choking gesture.

As an adult, please sign up for a Red Cross life saving course; take one for the first time, or just take a refresher.  There is not a single more important thing you can do for the people you love.

Hugs,

Determination

About ten years ago I applied to a private college in an effort to become an adult student.  My high school grades were not good, and I had no previous college credits to speak of; so they asked me to write an essay telling them why they should accept me as a student.

The theme of the essay I wrote was determination.  I told them that as an adult student I had experienced failure and had learned to pick myself up and try again.  I wrote that I was determined to make something of myself, and that I would not fail in my task.

It turns out that my words back then weren’t quite true.

Sure, I had known failure, just ask my mom about my high school report cards, she’ll tell you exactly how much failure I had experienced. I’d never failed at something I worked for though.  My failure was consistently due to lack of trying, and when I actually wanted something, I always achieved it.

Apperantly I still had a lesson to learn.

In high school, I was accused of being a lazy slacker.  When my college application was accepted, I went back to school and received high honors each semester I attended.  Then the story changed, and I was told I was a perfectionist and an over-achiever.  The truth is, I’m none of the above.

I’m just insecure, and believe it or not, I’m afraid of being a failure. 

No, I’m not afraid of failing, God knows I’ve done enough of it in my life.  It’s easy to fail when I don’t try though; it doesn’t bother me one bit.  I can tell myself that if I had wanted to, I would have done an excellent job, but I just didn’t care enough to exert myself. 

Instead, I’m afraid of being a failure.  So when I do care, I have to work my ass off to make sure I excel.  Because to try and fail would mean that I’m not good enough, not smart enough, and therefore have no real worth as a person.

So when I went to beauty school to become a nail tech, it was assumed that I would not only do well, but that I would once again exceed all expectations.  I wanted it after all, and I worked my ass off studying for quizzes and procedures the same way I studied for finals when I was pulling a 4.0 in college.

School had some really great ups, and some really horrible downs.  All of which I’ll eventually explain in another post, on another day.  For now, suffice it to say that I graduated with a respectable grade, and everyone assumed I would pass the state board exam with nary a hiccup.

Not so much.

The Wisconsin state board exam for manicurists is divided into two portions: a written exam, and a practical exam where you actually perform three services on a living model.  I passed the written exam with a high score, but failed the practical portion miserably.

Now, it’s been argued that my failure may not have been entirely my fault.  However, that feels like a dodge, and even if it were true, it’s not really pertinent to the story.  I tried my hardest, and I failed.  It was a crushing blow to my ego, and my sense of self worth.

I felt like I’d wasted John’s hard earned money, and didn’t want to waste more in another attempt I would probably fail.  I felt like such an idiot, and I was so embarrassed and disappointed in myself.

It took me over six months to find my determination, that can-do spirit I wrote about all those years ago, the one that would allow me to dust myself off and give it another go.  It was hard battling the demons I’d managed to previously contain, the ones whispering in my subconscious how worthless and stupid I was.  After all, manicures aren’t rocket science, how dumb do you have to be to tank the test?

Even when a friend passed the exam and helped me with my procedure, I still didn’t want to re-take.  It felt so much easier to give up and say it wasn’t worth the effort, then it would be to fail again.

Until one day, when I was talking to my son about a problem he was having at school, and I told him how important it was to keep trying.  “Failure isn’t a mark on your worth as a person,” I told him. “You only truly fail if you don’t even try to succeed.”

As soon as the words left my mouth I knew what a gigantic hypocrite I was.

So I re-took the test, because if nothing else ever comes out of my life, I at least want to be able to say I was a good example for my children. 

I was sure I’d failed again, but this time it wasn’t going to hold me back.  I had the paperwork prepped for the next test, waiting to be sent as soon as I got my failure notice.

It turns out I’m also a failure at predicting the future. 

When I received my exam results, I opened the envelope with a steady hand, and not a single hope in my heart.  It wasn’t until I saw the passing score that my hands started to shake, and I began to cry.  My kids thought I’d failed again, until I started jumping up and down.  It was over, I’d done it.  I managed to turn a failure into a success, even when I thought it was hopeless.

Now I want there to be some moral to the story here, but I don’t really have one.  Life sucks, get over it, maybe?  We can wallow in our own failures and insecurities, or we can get up and try a little harder.  Or, as in my case, we can do some of both; wallow for awhile, then get up and try again.

This experience hasn’t exorcised my personal demons.  No, I’m still a lazy, over-achieving, slacking, perfectionist.  Maybe next time it just won’t take me so long to quit acting like a baby.

I do know one thing for sure though, and it’s what I tell my kids all the time… 

Failure isn’t a grade on a piece of paper.  It’s the inability to learn from your mistakes, and the unwillingness to work to achieve your goals.

Success is just determination.

Hugs,

Jack Jack Bo Back…

It’s time for a fluff post, so I’m going to regale you with stories and pictures of my dumb dog.  Now when I say dumb, I mean it with the utmost love and respect, but how else can you describe a dog who sleeps like this:

and this:

this:

this:

and this:

And yes, he is sleeping in every single one of those pictures, even if his eyes are open.  You don’t know how many times I’ve checked his breathing to make sure he wasn’t dead…

After about six months of struggling with some medical problems, Jack is finally healthy, getting some energy (although he still lacks coordination), and is starting to do some of the things normal dogs do.  He still doesn’t bark, for which I’m pretty grateful, but the other day I almost fell over in shock when he jumped up on a visitor.  He’s never jumped on anyone before because a genetic back condition has prevented it.  So when I saw him do it I thought, “Oh wow, he feels good enough to jump!” and then immediately followed the thought with “Oh crap, I’m going to have to train him not to jump on people!”

Such is our life with Jack.  It’s mostly snuggles, love, and continuous training.  Now that he’s healthy enough for surgery, he’ll be getting neutered soon, and then as soon as he’s recovered he’ll start formal training to get his Canine Good Citizen’s Certificate.  After that, I’d like to start him in therapy training, but we’ll have to see how everything goes.

Now, despite my pretty vocal advocacy for Jack, and Pit Bulls in general, I still get asked a lot if I worry about having him in a house with a smallish child.  The truth is, I don’t worry about Jack hurting Jenna anymore than I would if we had any other breed of dog in the house.  I mostly worry that Jenna, with her craziness, might hurt or threaten Jack in some way that would make him lash out and bite her.

If an accident ever were to happen though, it wouldn’t be his fault; it would be mine, for not catching the cues he gives us to let us know he’s not comfortable with his surroundings, that he’s scared or hurt, and that he’s reaching his limits.  Dogs almost always tell us when they’re getting ready to snap, the problems happen when the humans in the room don’t understand the language.

(Note: We don’t normally allow too much Jack hugging because dogs, in general, are not fans of having their heads held immobile.  So when you hug, you’re putting your face right next to a bunch of sharp teeth attached to a potentially stressed out dog.)

Pit Bulls used to be ‘Nanny Dogs’ though, trusted with looking after the smallest members of the house.  It’s really not a surprise that Jack is so good with our own pygmy house ape.  Babysitting is in his blood.

I often tell people who ask about our scary pit bull, all about Jenna’s undiagnosed stomach problem.  She’s seen a few doctors for it, has had a different diagnosis with each one, and so far nothing has helped.  Every few months though, Jenna gets sick for no reason, and for two to three days suffers with severe stomach cramps and vomiting.  We often have no warning when these episodes are coming on, except for the stomach cramps which start up about ten minutes before the vomiting does. 

Jack knows though, and will start following her around before the cramps even hit.  He becomes a bramble that’s impossibly stuck to her, and no amount of coaxing will convince him to leave her alone.

Then, when it hits, and she gets really sick, too sick to leave the couch without help, he curls up next to her and stays until she’s better.  He gets up only to eat and go potty, and even those activities decrease in frequency.

During these times when she’s miserable, and understandably grouchy, she can lay on him…

Kick him…

and he will not budge, whine, or make any protest whatsoever.  He stays, until his pygmy house ape is feeling better.

And then he stays a little longer just to be sure.

The best indicator that she’s on the road to recovery, is when Jack goes back to his regularly scheduled activities.

So no, I don’t really worry much at all. 

Hugs,

All Lacquered Up

When people find out I’m a nail tech, the first question they usually ask me is “What’s your favorite nail polish?”  It’s a good question since there are scads of different brands on the market to choose from, and the quality between brands can vary greatly. 

As a nail tech, polish is my mainstay.  Almost all of my clients walk out the door with polish of some kind on their nails.  It’s the one product that I must have in quantity, and the one thing I can’t live without. 

So when I look for a polish to put on my shelf for client use, I look for four different traits; Application, Wearability, Affordability, and Selection.

1. Application – Can the polish be applied in 2 thin coats with complete coverage and without streaks?  Does the brush hold enough polish so that one dip in the bottle will cover the nail?  Does the brush fan out so that the polish can be properly applied to the nail in three strokes?

2. Wearability – When applied properly, with  good quality base and top coats, how long before the polish begins to chip when worn on the natural nail?

3. Affordability – Will I have to sell my children into slavery to be able to afford a good selection of polish colors?

4. Selection – Does the brand have a lot of different colors with a decent variety of finishes (cream, glitter, shimmer, frost, etc.)?

Until recently I hadn’t found a brand that scored well in all four categories.  I had a few favorites, but all fell flat in at least one area.  So today I’ll share my top picks with you, what I love and hate about each of them, and I’ll tell you which one I think will be pushing all of the other brands off my shelf.

First off, Sally Hansen doesn’t even make my list.  Every time I go through my favorites, I get asked “But isn’t Sally Hansen ok too?”  The short answer is no, it’s not.  Don’t get me wrong, it serves a purpose.  If you need a cheap polish to match a dress that you only wear once or twice a year, and you don’t care if it chips before the party’s over, then run to Walgreens and pick up a bottle of Sally.  There are a ton of colors available, but you may need a few coats for complete color coverage, and it will likely be chipped before the  end of the night. 

Instead, if you want something inexpensive with a little more wearability, try Finger Paints.  You can pick them up at Sally’s Beauty Supply.  They cost a little more than Sally Hansen, but are still quite affordable.  They also have a great color selection, apply nicely, and will wear for a day or two longer than cheaper polishes.  I like this brand, and have a few of them on my shelf.  It’s not a professional quality polish, but it’s a great alternative if you don’t want to have to run to a salon to pick up a bottle.

Working my way up, the next on my list is China Glaze.  This brand scores high on the affordability scale at about $5 a bottle.  It is a professional brand, albeit a low quality one, and you can purchase it at many salons as well as Sally Beauty.  They have a great color selection and seasonal releases to expand the palette of choices.  However, China Glaze scores low on my list for application and wearability.  The brushes are not as easy to work with as I’d like, and some colors aren’t pigmented enough to provide complete, streak-free coverage in two coats.  You’ll also probably start seeing chips appear around two days after your manicure.

Ranking in next is Color Club.  When I first started using Color Club polishes, I hated them.  However, it turns out that the bottles I was using were old, gloopy, and generally disgusting.  A newer bottle has great application and coverage.  They’re also extremely affordable, and are typically a little cheaper to buy than China Glaze.  The downside to Color Club is that you have to purchase it in a salon, and it can be difficult to find one that carries the brand.  It also doesn’t score very high on the wearability meter, and you can expect your polish to start chipping a day or two after application.

OPI is the first polish to score in as one of my favorite brands of polish.  While OPI polishes are more expensive than the previous brands listed, they’re worth every penny.  They’re highly pigmented and therefore provide excellent coverage.  They have a ton of colors to choose from, as well as frequent releases of limited edition colors that are usually trendy and fabulous.  OPI wears well on the natural nail, and you can typically get five days to a week out of your polish before you’ll need to repaint.  The one thing I hate about this brand however, is the one thing most people love about it; so feel free to take my opinion with a grain of salt…  I hate the wide brush that comes standard in the full size bottles of OPI.  I know, I know, I’m weird… But you see, my problem is this: I do a lot of manicures on kids and smaller adults.  I find that it’s nearly impossible to paint a tiny pinkie nail without making a mess using an OPI brush, and don’t even ask me about painting pinkie toes for a pedicure with it (it makes me swear every time).  It’s so bad, it’s almost a deal breaker for me, but you might love the brush, so by all means, give it a try and find out!

Until very recently, CND ranked in as my all time favorite.  It scores low on the affordability scale, topping out between $9 – $11 a bottle, but for the standard colors that you wear all of the time, it’s well worth the price.  CND polishes are so highly pigmented that most can be applied in one coat, with complete coverage and no streaking.  That means it dries quicker, and you’ll also get more applications out of a bottle; so in the long run the price becomes comparable to the cheaper polishes.  It also wears like iron, and unless you’re really hard on your nails, should last about a week before it starts to chip off.  Now, a few years ago CND made an innovation in nail polishes, and introduced a line called Color and Effects.  What it is, is a line of about fifty creamy polish colors, and a line of about fifteen top coats that add sparkle, glitter, or frost effects to the colors.  The color is applied first and then the effects, and the many combinations between the two give you an almost unlimited range of looks for your nails.  Really cool, right?   The only gripe I have with CND is that they need more colors!!!!  Most of the colors they offer fall into the range of reds and peaches, and less than ten fall into a non-standard color range (yellows, greens, blues, etc.).  That’s fine for a more sedate crowd, but again, I do nails on a lot of kids, and they all want weird colors in bright shades.  If CND expanded their line, I’d marry them and devote myself to their polish babies, but until they offer a range of colors that satisfies all of my clients, I have to look elsewhere to fill that gap.

Now we’ve come to my top pick, and it’s a brand that I didn’t even know existed until a couple of months ago.  The more familiar I become with it though, the more I’m falling in love…

Zoya is my all around top polish pick.  This brand, so far, has gotten top marks in all of my fields.  At $7 a bottle, the price falls solidly in the middle of those listed above.  The quality, however, compares to OPI and CND, which makes the price tag even more impressive.  I’ve heard complaints that the brush is too small, and it is a little on the small side.  Yet, the quality of the brush is so high that I am able to cover even a large thumbnail with one bottle dip, and the bristles spread out nicely when touched to the nail, making a three stroke application a snap even with the smaller size.  The polish itself is highly pigmented, and covers beautifully with two thin coats, leaving no streaks or blotches behind.  They also have an amazing selection of colors and finishes, with a great color spoon program that lets you try before you buy if you’re not sure that a color is right for you.

That leaves wearability as the only category that is yet undecided for Zoya and me, but that’s merely because I haven’t had adequate time to really judge how it performs under different circumstances.  So far my results have been good though, and I’m hopeful that when used on a properly prepared natural nail, it will wear at least as well as OPI.  All in all, I’m ready to start clearing out my other polishes (except for a few favorites) to make room for more Zoya colors.

Zoya is available online (their web store has terrific customer service and shipping times), or at select salons.  Give it a try, if you don’t like the polish you’re welcome to send it to me!

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask in the comments and I’ll do my best to answer!

Hugs,

No Regrets

This weekend, I was with my adult (oh God I’m so OLD!) daughter, and we happened to find ourselves in an establishment that performs piercings and tattoos.  We were looking at the flash art they have displayed on the walls, laughing and having fun, and I joked that I should have a butterfly tattooed on my face.

It was a really cute little butterfly!

I did not, in fact, leave the shop with new ink on my face.  After a lot of teasing from my daughter and the staff at the shop though, I did leave with a little cartoon puppy on the inside of my arm.  One that looks remarkably similar to my Jack.

It’s not a DaVinci, but it’s tiny, cute, and even though it’s just a piece of flash I picked out of a book, it means something to me.

The experience though, got me thinking…

I’m no stranger to tattoos.  I now have four, and my husband has four as well.  Over the years I’ve been subjected to the criticisms of many people when they learn I have permanent ink on my body.  I say learn because almost all of my ink is hidden, and so I usually have to inform people that I have it.  I’ve had family, friends, and even people I’ve just met who somehow believe they have a right to offer me lifestyle advice, tell me that someday I’ll regret it.

“You’ll regret it when you’re old, and your skin begins to wrinkle and sag.”

“You’ll regret using flash, and not getting ink that’s personal to you.”

“You’ll regret making a spur of the moment decision that’s going to stick with you FOREVER!”

“You’ll regret it when the ink blurs and fades and you’re stuck with a big blob of nothing on your body.”

This is the theme of most of the comments I receive.  That someday I’m going to be filled with remorse and regret.  I’ll moan and lament that I ever spent the twenty dollars to have a puppy the size of a postage stamp tattooed onto my body.

I don’t buy it though, and as usual, I’m going to tell you why.

Each and every one of my tattoos has meaning to me, whether they were flash art picked off a wall, or original artwork made just for me.  Some of them have special meaning in the symbolism, but for each and every one, there’s meaning in the memory.

I got my first tattoo almost fifteen years ago.  I was visiting John in New York, and we drove to a shop in New Jersey so I could get inked.  I had been wanting a rose on my ankle for almost as long as I could remember, and I decided that while I was in New York, embarking on a new stage of my life, it was the perfect time to have it done.

The design has meaning, I picked a grey rose, and added a cross element, symbolizing myself and John, the man who helped me break out of a life that was killing me quicker than cyanide in my coffee.  So every time I see it now, I think of us, and of the war I fought to save myself; to start again.

More so than the symbolism though, looking at the ink brings back a vivid memory of being happy for the first time in a long time, the drive to New Jersey, and the artist at the shop who made me laugh until I cried. 

Honestly, the tattoo can sag and wrinkle, fade and blur until it’s an unrecognizable blob, but the feelings and memories it evokes, never will.  I’ve been told it’s ugly, and perhaps to some it is, but I see only beauty when I look at it.  It marks the start of a beautiful me, and I have no regrets.

My second tattoo is a back piece that I jokingly refer to as my tramp stamp.  I got it on my thirtieth birthday, before tramp stamps were cool.  It’s up higher than most of the stamps you see on girls, and peeks out over my waistband when I bend over and my shirt rides up.

It’s a bit of flash, with no meaning at all.  Just a decoration on my skin.  Every time I see it in the mirror though, another vivid memory of a day spent with the man I love comes to mind.  He took me out the morning of my birthday, telling me he had a surprise for me.  We drove to Wauwatosa, or Waukesha, or some other ‘burb of Milwaukee and ended up at a tattoo parlor.  He hadn’t made an appointment, so the wait took about six hours. We spent the time sitting on a bench outside the store, just enjoying each other’s company, talking to strangers, and basking in the rare warmth of a spring day in Wisconsin.

It has no deep meaning.  As I grow older and wider, it’s stretched a bit with my girth, and I have no regrets.

My third tattoo is a zuni bear on my thigh.  It’s an original piece of artwork, made just for me, and has symbolism so personal and private that I won’t discuss it here.  Again, it includes sharp memories of the day, the people, and the emotions of the event.  It lost a bit of color in the healing process, is a little wonky where it covers some stretch marks, and no one ever sees it but John and I.  Still, it’s beautiful, and vibrant, and so totally me that I have no regrets.

Last but not least is my new cartoon puppy.  It’s the only ink on my body that is easily visible.  I think my willingness to put it there shows that I’m moving on to yet another stage in my life.  One where I do things because it makes me happy, and one where I don’t really care what other people may think about it.  I’m past the point of having to worry about what potential employers may think.  If they won’t hire me because of a tattoo that’s no bigger than a nickel, it’s their loss, not mine.

Of course it symbolizes my first dog.  My vicious pit bull who I’ve come to love like a child.  A child who will never leave me to go to college, or get married.  My silly dog who gets bullied nightly by the cat, who would do just about anything for a butt scratch, and who taught me to not judge a dog by its muscled shoulders and big blocky head, even if everyone else does. 

More than that though, I'll always have the memory of a day spent with my beautiful daughter, who’s now a grown woman and becoming more my friend than my child.  I’ll remember the laughing and the teasing, and I know that every time she sees it, she’ll remember the same.

It can blur and fade, become an unrecognizable spot of color on my skin, but the feelings and memories it evokes will always stay the same.

I have no regrets.

Hugs,