Beauty Confidential is a new title from Harper Collins. Here is some scoop about the author:

Written by Nadine Haobsh, who was dubbed "poster girl for the blogger generation," and featured in international broadcast and prints news, big blogs like Gawker and Gothamist, beauty blogs, etc. Nadine garnered a cult following by blogging as Jolie In NYC about insider beauty secrets and dispensing freebies while working as a beauty editor at Ladies Home Journal.  When finally outed by New York Post, she was let go from LHJ plus Seventeen rescinded their offer to make her their beauty editor.  Nadine …was effectively "dooced", thanks to her blog - Jolie in NYC.

I love words like "cult following" and “dooced”. Why, oh why, can’t Value wIT get dooced or develop a cult following????

Parent Blogger Network is hosting a contest to write about the biggest beauty blunders where the winner gets a batch ‘o beauty products – not that I need them or anything, as my inside beauty shines through like a blinding light.  Don’t you see it in the kind words I write? 

Winners of these contests are selected by random drawing and I NEVER win, which is why I am printing a re-run of a big beauty blunder that has already been published. If you’ve read this already, relive the past with me and be happy for me that my children are now potty trained.

P.S. This afternoon I'm visiting my good friend the hair stylist who will masterfully style my hair into a tunnel for a ferret. No. Really. I'm going to a party where the theme is hogs, hominy, champagne and caviar. It seems fitting that I wear taxidermy with my long, silky dress.  I wanted to incorporate a mounted bird, but my friend talked me into using a 1920's ferret with a little head and teeth. Tasty.

Here's the beauty blunder story:

Having two little children and two teenage stepchildren forces a parent into over-planning and compulsive behavior. Mosty, the almighty schedule keeps the many appointments, performances and personalities at bay, and with strict adherance to the minute-by-minute plan, my life was clicking along until suddenly a storm blew in. I just sat in disbelief as the tornado whirled around me. As fast as it blew in, it blew out.

Let me set the scene: It’s Monday (of course), and I have no plans to work or entertain the children, as we were supposed to be on vacation, which is an entirely different disaster story. To pass the morning, I treated the children to an indoor playground for two and half hours, then brought them home and fed them lunch, let them play in the sprinkler, and took them on an adventure to spy on the neighbor’s landscapers. Pretty good, huh? It wasn’t an A+ day, but a good solid A-.

Then I turned on that alluring devil of a helper called the television. The kids watched an hour of the free baby-sitter while I returned calls and emails. Five minutes before the television time was to end, I decided to dye my hair with some grocery store-bought “natural” hair color. I know how this part of the story ends, but EVERY time I fall for it. I think, “Oh, I can pay $6 and save $125.” It always fails. Always.

So, I’m sitting at my computer with the hair color on while I finish some invoicing. Multitasking makes me feel so efficient and, therefore, so good. I am worthy of taking up airspace. I then tell the children that television time is over.

The toddler goes into hysteria: “I watch Lazytown! I watch Lazytown!” I calmly tell him that he just lived Lazytown...to no avail. He’s crying and crying. I try to change the subject by showing the children the little porcelain box I gave their father earlier in the day for our seventh anniversary. My daughter wants to wants to hold it. “Be careful.” I chide. Yeah. Right. Still screaming, the two-year old fills my head, but I have got to calm him down because I must wash the hair color off. It’s really been on too long…

I jump in the shower while the baby stares at me and screams at the top of his lungs. He really wants a nap, but I’ve taken those away because then he stays up too late. Finally, I get out of the shower and hold him -- and his little eyes close. “No, no, no nap!” I say, as it’s now almost 4:00. He’ll never go to bed if he naps now! We read. We sing. All is well. He’s now awake and smiling.

I go downstairs.

The scene is a mess. All the pillows off the couch. Cookie crumbs everywhere. Naked child. And...what’s this? The porcelain box lies broken in two pieces, and horrifyingly strewn in the middle of the mess.

I am enraged, but I can only muster a pitiful, “You broke Daddy’s box. How could you be so careless?” My daughter bursts into hysterical tears. Not the kind of tears that you make you pity her (“Boohoo, I’m so sorry, Mommy. Can you ever forgive me?”). But the kind of tears that beg for a spanking (“I didn’t do it! I hate you!” punctuated by foot stomping and shrieking).

Suddenly, I am calm -- I think back to a recent parenting book that clues me into the fact that this is a real teaching moment. In fact, it’s THE moment to make a difference in my child’s emotional life. “Honey, please go to your room,” I say.

I call the father of the children and recount the story and ask his advice on what to do. For some reason, I assume he is on the same page as I am. In fact, I think he realizes this is a “teachable” moment and he is going to help shape our children into the kind of people with whom society will be pleased.

Nope. Are you sitting down? He tells me that I should take them out of the house and do something with them -- that I shouldn’t let them just sit home and watch television! As if they had been watching television all day! Even though it’s our anniversary, I say unkind things to him.

With one child off to her room, I use this opportunity to clothe myself - remember, I never had time to dress as the baby was howling at the shower. I tell the baby in an animated and very fake voice, “Now, let’s leave your sister alone. Her door is closed (and she’s yelling in a devil-like guttural scream), so you will have to play elsewhere until she calms down.”

He’s happy. He’s playing in my closet and closing the door and engaging me in peek-a-boo. I go into the bathroom and he comes in soon after. “I go tee-tee, Mommy,” he says with a smile. “WHAT???? Where?” I demand. I feel his underpants and they are dry. Thank goodness. False alarm. He takes me to the closet. No, not false alarm! He has a new trick. He takes his penis out of his underwear and whizzes all over everything. Yep. In my closet.

At last, I look in the mirror. My hair is red instead of “Rich Chestnut.” Of course it is.

I glance at the clock and this whole fiasco took less than thirty minutes. Now, my daughter is saying to her brother, “Come on, let’s clean up the playroom.” The devil came and left.

Comments

[Jennifer]

Oh no. Oh no. What a terrible 30 minutes!

Hope your ferret 'do looks wonderful tonight!

[Avery]

Oh, that's funny! Well, not at the time, I'm sure. But the retelling is gold! Pure gold!

[hokgardner]

What does "dooced" mean?