I bet you thought my husband was the only man I would trot in front of the Internet for my own amusement. Didn’t you?

Well, you were wrong.

My disrespect for manhood extends far beyond the narrow confines of The Man I Have Sex With. My irreverence knows no bounds. And yours shouldn’t either.

To prove my point, today we begin with a subject who is in no way at all my husband:

My boss.

(OK, so if you know my boss you might suspect he is an easy target. Play along.)

Once he is good and tied down comfortable, it is best to get to work quickly before he comes to his senses. In other words, roll up his pants and fill up the tub - so that it would be awkward for him to try and leave.

Before she pulls his hooves feet out of the water, it is helpful to thank the nice Asian lady. A lot.

After much poking and prodding and clipping and scraping and rubbing and cutting and shaving and tweezing… it is important to stop and check on The Subject.

And then, once you’ve ensured that everything is fine…

You break out the Purple Polish.

And that, my dear readers, is how you take another bite out of manhood.

Want to see the pretty purple piggies in all their glory? Bask in their awesomeness here.

Before one can make amends, one must do something worthy of being amended.

Such as - putting your husband in a bonnet. On the Internet.

That would be, step one. Then, it’s time to get down to the business of making amends.

Oh yeah. We’re going there….

After the bonnet is tied firmly in place:

Read the rest of this page »

I’m working on becoming a professional photographer.

OK, that’s a lie.

But I HAVE been taking a lot of pictures lately. And I AM considering adding a “photo blog” section to this site.

I’ve got my debut picture all picked out. But professional photo bloggers need captions. And for the life of me, I can’t come up with one.

Can you help?

Caption this!

Winner gets gifted a Flickr Pro account (or something similar if you’ve got one, I guess.)

Annnnddd….

Go!

(P.S. The winner of the Send Hilly to Philly Fundraising contest was announced yesterday here. And yes, we did raise enough money to send Hilly to Philly. In fact, you guys surpassed our needs in about 24 hours. The extra cash was sent to a few other bloggers who are also going to Philly and were trying to get hotels, etc. You guys? Are awesome. Now… Caption my picture!)

Oh my God, I am so exhausted.

Funny thing about living in Vacation Land - you don’t do shit until other people are on vacation. In your house.

It’s been 10 days since this whole Month of The House Guest began - which means we still have about three weeks to go. And good God, I’m never going to make it. I’ve already done Universal, the beach twice, the state park, some other stuff I can’t remember because holy shit did I mention how tired I was?

Anyway, not the point.

Point is - I’m a loser.

How big of a loser you ask?

Read the rest of this page »

Dear Miss Britt,

I have been reading your blog for over a year. Now that we both live in the same sunshine state, we should get together. I’m sure we’d have lots of fun!

Sincerely,

Allyson

—————-

Dear Allyson,

This sounds like a great idea! I really enjoy meeting new bloggers.

Are you available the last weekend in February?

If so, you should drive two and a half hours to hang out at my house!

We can have drinks.

And hang out. And just… relax.

You can even meet the Husband.

We’d love to have you over.

Hope to see you soon!

XOXOX,

Miss Britt

P.S. Anyone else got a craving to meet me? Yeah… I didn’t think so.

I’ve got nothing.

Let’s just stare at my shoes, shall we?

You can see more random below average pictures from me here.

I know. Your day is now complete.

P.S. I just watched the Clinton Obama debate. I want to marry Obama.

P.P.S. Hillary, seriously, you need to fire your strategist. OMG, you came off as an angry, bitter woman with no manners.

I first heard about the BlogHer “Letter To My Body” Initiative over at Joy Unexpected. I’m following suit because I think it’s a brilliant cause, and one more women should embrace. It’s something my mother would be proud of.

Dear Body,

You have had to live with a lot of expectations. From me, from men, from other women - everyone has their own demands on you.

I should warn you, that’s probably not going to change.

My children will still expect you to push beyond your limits because they need us, even when we’re tired. Men will continue to expect you to hold on to our youth and never show any signs of wear. And other women? Well, I hate to tell you, but it seems that is just getting worse. They want you to be taller. And slender. And strong. And if you can manage it? Bullet proof skin would be a plus.

Thank God we still have Jared. He’s loved you in every shape and form. Even when I couldn’t stand to look at you anymore.

About that…

I have expected more of you than anyone. And I have ignored you and given you little appreciation for your successes.

When you were young and vibrant, your muscles taut and your skin still smooth, I berated you for your lack of lankiness. When your hips rounded long before child birth, I chastised you for ignoring the waif trend that was so prominent among teenage girls. I tried desperately to disguise you, with push up bras and jeans meant to elongate your naturally short legs. I didn’t appreciate your energy and stamina until they started to fade.

And, let’s be honest, when you were at your most vulnerable… I used you.

Worse than that, I let other people use you. I yielded you as a weapon. I let your value be judged by people who had no business doing so. For years I ignored how precious you are and sent you out as the guinea pig to see how dangerous the rest of the world could be. I tried to deny that you were intricately a part of Me, so that I didn’t have to face what I was putting you through.

And somehow, you survived. And I continued to take you for granted.

When you carried my children, reinventing yourself almost over night in order to meet their needs, I cried when you began to show signs of strain. I labeled your swelling and stretch marks as scars of weakness, ignoring the strength you exhibited by nurturing those two beautiful people inside you.

When you made soft places for those babies to lay their heads, I grew angry with you for your insistence on adapting.

And then I took control of you. I changed our diet drastically and melted 40 lbs from your frame. For the first time, I was finally pleased with you… because you were finally living up to everyone else’s standards.

Ah, that honeymoon period was sweet.

Of course, you and I know that behind closed doors, you’ve once again fallen short. We know that underneath my size six jeans, I hide your butt - that would sooner swallow a quarter than bounce one. We know that inside the Victoria Secret Secret Embrace bra, your breasts have become deflated and empty.

We know that your skin is sagging. We know that you’ve suddenly seem to become obsessed with new ways to sprout hair faster than I can remove it. We know that the excuses of pregnancy and child birth can no longer justify the potato sack you’ve attached beneath your belly button.

But I want to tell you, for once, for the first time…

That’s OK.

Really. Because those expectations that people have for you? They’re nothing more than a fantasy anyway. Other bodies don’t look like that either - not without surgery and airbrushing. Trust me. I have seen Cindy Crawford and Jennifer Love Hewitt (thank you Internet)… and you’re not doing too badly.

Are your boobs deflated? Sure they are. They’ve fed two children. But they also still spark at the touch and add to your uniquely feminine silhouette.

The extra width of your hips is what creates that beautifully melodic line when you lay on your side.

Your legs bear the signs of a woman who has learned to stand on them, on her own.

The new whispers of lines around your eyes are a reminder that you have lived more, laughed more, and cried more than a younger version of you. They remind your children that you have seen enough to offer them guidance.

Your hands have begun to look less like your daughter’s, and more like your mother’s… which is at it should be as you stop needing a caretaker and become one.

Are you aging and sagging and adding to your fat storage? Sure you are. You no longer need the defense of hard lines. Our life is now filled with people who need the comfort and warmth that your softening provides. The energy you exuded in your younger years is slowly being tempered by a calm, more quiet confidence that grows from experience.

You’re settling in, and you deserve that.

God knows, we both do.

Quick reminder! The Worst Contest Ever ends tonight at 12pm EST. Get your entries in so I can give away some prizes!
——————————————————————————————————————–

I hate the zoo.

Hate, hate, hate, hate, haaaaate. The zoo.

My hatred of the zoo is so vehement that it has become one of those things that family legends and long running jokes are made of.

I blame my mother.

When I was very young, my mother and I lived in Chicago with my Nana and Poppi. And there are lots and lots of wonderful things you can do with a small child in Chicago. There are even lots of free things you can do with a small child in Chicago.

But do you know what that woman made me do the most?

Wander around the fucking zoo.

I think it was probably around the 136th time I heard “oh, look, it’s a zebra” that I decided zoos suck big monkey ass.

This has not changed simply because I now have children. Or because I have a zoo ten minutes from my house. Or because it was 80 degrees this weekend and a trip to the zoo sounded like something the kids would enjoy. I may have suggested we go, but not at all as a sign that my hatred for zoos is waning!!

There is still absolutely nothing fun about standing around and staring at animals while they eat.

“Mom, look, it licks me…”

I mean seriously. They are just freaking animals. Sitting there.

“Mama, can I touch it?”

I have never understood why that is so fascinating to people.

“Mommy, I touch a turtle too…”

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been enthralled with the idea of just watching anything. I like to be doing, rather than sitting and looking. Whether it’s nature walks or OMG THE LEAVES ARE CHANGING drives or… zoos. There are very few things in this world that are interesting enough to just fucking LOOK at.

“Do you see it Mom? Do you see it?”

Some people actually get excited about going to the zoo. I imagine these are people who do not know what they are in for. Who the hell gets excited about animals that just lay there??

Yeah. Zoos are stupid. Boring. Hot. Wandering around just… looking.

And how fun is it too just… look?

“Yes baby, I see it…”

There is a nasty rumor going around that I don’t know how to make Guacamole.

And, OK, so my last attempt didn’t end… um… well. I’ll give you that.

But! Since then! I have been redeemed!

No, really. I totally know how to make Guacamole now.

(you, stop snickering, I will show you…)

Allow me to bestow upon you, my loyal readers, the wisdom that I have learned so that you may avoid the pitfalls of bad guacamole and leap ahead to true culinary mastery.

Read the rest of this page »

Dear Miss Britt,

The Mutt Princess

Oh, my sweet. I did indeed experience a skin revolt when I moved here. Up until The Move, I had basically perfect skin. Minimal blemishes, no oil slicks, very rare dry patches that could quickly be corrected with a little extra moisturizer, and I had no idea what people were talking about when they discussed “pores”. How the hell could pores be visible?, I wondered.

And then I entered a land of high humidity and my skin wigged the fuck out. Suddenly I had zits and oil and nastiness and these holes on my face. Big, gaping HOLES that I was just sure could swallow a small child with little or no warning.

I went in search via the Internet, TLC and Beauty Columns. I took full advantage of my new access to fancy schmancy beauty stores like Sephora and Ulta. Blah blah blah yada yada the tale of Miss Britt’s quest for her lost porcelain skin…

Anyway. Here we are. And I have to be honest with you, here is not exactly pretty.

That’s me, fresh from the shower (with shirt still on my head! (Because everyone knows you use shirts, not towels, on your head - right?)). No makeup, no nothing. Clearly.

You too can have red blotchy skin that requires make up to go into public!!

No, seriously. I have advice.

ANYway - the first thing I learned about big ass pores is that it comes from unbalanced skin. Which is NOT necessarily the same as OILY skin. So washing your face fifty times a day in order to get rid of excess oil? Not such a great idea. (And incidentally, NOT washing your face to make sure your pores don’t have to work overtime because surely that makes sense - also not a good idea).

Here’s how you get your skin in balance: wash it. First thing in the morning, and right before bed. (And yes, that one two over half the time that you are too fucking tired and just collapse into bed because you can no longer see the make up anyway? That counts. In a bad way.)

Seriously though, it has itty bitty scrubber things in it, and that’s enough for me. You can get expensive stuff. I have some expensive stuff. It’s just - meh, it’s basically soap. As long as it’s not actual soap that will strip the shit out of your skin, I’ve found that the washy stuff is less important than the moisturizer.

Which brings us to part two of the secret to balanced skin (and eventually smaller pores): moisturize it. Not too much, not too little, after you wash your face twice a day. Finding a moisturizer that is right for your skin (not too much, not too little) can be tricky.

My current favorite is some free stuff I got from AmyD actually. I also have loads of mini tubs in that cabinet full of really expensive shit that I hate. But they are mini tubs - which means they didn’t cost me a dime. Go to Sephora and ask for samples. You’ll be able to tell almost instantly if it goes on smooth and leaves your skin feeling soft, or if it makes it feel kind of tight and not right. Obviously “tight and not right” would be bad.

OK - so, wash your face and use moisturizer. I’m sure you’ve been doing that. And I’m sure, like me, what you’re really hoping I’ll tell you is that I’ve found some magical product that you can put on and BAM! No more visible pores! And BAM OVER TIME! The pores actually tighten up and disappear for real!

Something, perhaps, like this:
(cue angels singing)

That is Dr. Brandt’s Pores No More. And it represents the hopes and dreams of big pored women everywhere. It promises to cover and tighten. It uses words like porcelain and smooth.

And all of that is pretty much a load of $45 a tube CRAP.

OK, Ok, I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. Once I got over my initial disappointment that this very expensive shit did not give me instant china doll skin, I figured out there are some good things that it does - if you know how to use it.

First - SHAKE the tube. I know, it’s a TUBE - not a bottle. But shake it anyway. Otherwise it is separated goo. Shake the tube and it will be like foundation, basically.

Second - use a sponge. And this is crucial. Because you are going to use the sponge to BASICALLY SPACKLE YOUR FACE. Really. (Trust me, the TLC make up chics say so.) You put the crap on the sponge and rub it on your face and basically push it into your pores. Have you ever put puddy in a dry wall hole? It’s like that.

The nice thing about this really expensive stuff is that it is tinted - so if you can get the washing and the moisturizing down to an Every Day Yes Even When You’re Tired routine, you may be able to get away with just using this with no makeup.

Unless you’re me. If you’re me, you have two problems with this stuff. Number one: sometimes you are just TIRED and so maybe the whole face washing thing is HARD some nights, don’t you judge me! Number two: it’s $45 a fucking TUBE! Seriously.

So, if you are me, you keep searching for an alternative and find something quite strange on the Internet. Something so strange, it might actually work. And you think… well… maybe it’s worth a shot. Just maybe…

I swear. Really. I actually put this on my face.

It is like $7 a tube and it is some of the BEST primer/pore spackler stuff you can buy. It won’t do much to actually shrink your pores, but it will cover them up and fill them in enough that with makeup you can be fabulous.

And, I’m sorry, but leaving the house without makeup should end at like 16 anyway. I don’t care what size your pores are.

(Do you have a burning question you’d like Miss Britt to answer? Email me at britt @ miss-britt dot com and I’ll sure as hell do my best! Anonymous questions (or posted as anonymous anyway) are totally A-OK too.)