Thousand dollar home upgrades for $20 bucks

Memorial Day inspires me to stay home and nest instead of going out and celebration. Celebrating the dead through enjoying the living is my way of gaining comfort in what I consider to be a rather morbid holiday. About two weeks before this start-of-summer-holiday arrives, a creeping tension crawls up the back of my neck as I assess my home.

Dings and dents catch my eye. Dirty grout pops out like a naked person in church (though I've never actually seen this rare site). I jump in to action, and in ten minutes or less, I have literally upgraded my house in a capacity that my real estate agent friend says "makes it look like you just spent $15,000 bucks.

The two most impactful changes for under $20.00

By the toilet. All dark and grimy. It
can't all be from bad aim. (and I have no
idea how the side of a toilet gets this gross)

Flooring-- tile, slate, limestone etc. As my agent friend says, "nothing devalues a home like old floors." Any and all high-traffic area gets dirt ground in from use. In front of the sink (bathroom, kitchen) toilet, shower, entry way etc. The myth of course, is that an entire floor needs to be ripped and replaced. Not so! Four years ago, I assessed my slate and tile floors (the type of tile mattereth not), and saw dirty grout. The stone flooring rep told me to use an acid wash that takes 2 days-- (day 1, apply the acid wash, cover with tinfoil to heat the grout, day 2, rinse, apply the sealant and then over night, apply the gloss finish). It was perfect, and truly, it made my floors look like I had completely re-installed new slate and all bathroom flooring.

Thank heaven for change. 4 days ago, as I prepared to don my hazmat suit, Rog, my better, cheaper, and more time-sensitive half, suggested a simple spray.

"No such thing," I told him. Four years ago, I'd spent $14 bucks on what claimed to do the job in five minutes. It hadn't worked, even after leaving it on 30 min.

"Technology," he said, the one word culmination of what inner belief that man has. I told him to spend it out of his budget, since I wasn't going to spend the money twice (note: the two-stepper above was less than $30. Both sprays-wash and sealant, were sub @$15, so it wasn't like it was breaking the bank).

Halfway done by the toilet
I left the upper three lines 'before'
and used the grout cleaner on the
vertical line

I forget about it until the following day. Around 10 in the morning, when I've returned from dropping off my daughter to school, Rog asks me to come in the bathroom.

"Notice anything he asks?

The floor, of course. The grout is back to it's perfect, ivory self. I can't believe it. He proudly shows me the bottle of grout cleaner and I squeal. Of course, then I realize I have no before pictures to show you, but Rog saves me. He's missed a few areas around the toilet (apparently not all my guests have good aim) and the tub. I take pics. Then I whip out then cleanser, apply a thin strip to the grout, wait five minutes, and take my kitchen scrubber to the floor. He found a combo cleaner-sealer for less than ten dollars. He's the man. Yep. And he's alllll mine. (He did tell me that the Zep Mold and Mildew stain remover also works-for $9.00. He did both-one on a line of grime and the other--they work equally well).

After applying the cleaner, leave on 5 minutes, then scrub

Walla! it comes right off. The singular downside? The stuff is so toxic, the back of my throat scratched. Rog told me I was sensitive, since it hadn't bothered him in the least. As I gulped down some water, I was giddy like a school girl. My floor looked like a brand new, $10K floor.

There you have it. Thousand dollar
floor upgrade for $14 bucks US.

The second tip comes in the form upgrading your fireplace. I know it sounds stupid, but hear me out. Many people have fireplaces but never use them, preferring to heat their homes using electric or alternative forms. The fireplace sits abandoned, like a pretty girl at a dance who is left by her date shortly after arriving. Make use of the fireplace I say. Insert candles for each season, throw in a reindeer town for the holidays, or do nothing at all.

This is the before picture. The flash on my camera makes the
 cracks pop out even more than normal, natural light.

Whatever you do, upgrade the inside so it looks finished. The can of rust proof spray paint that works on concrete and all metals etc, will cost you all of $6 dollars and take less than 10 minutes. Be sure to cover your mouth and nose however, and keep the kids away, as the fumes from the arisole can are noxious.

This is the after. You can still see the lines, which is part of the charm.
However, at least it's not showing through. In the evening light, the entire guts of the
fireplace is pitch black-- a cool effect against the candles.

This is our main floor fireplace in the living room. It's massive and was a crappy grey from the concrete blocks. The first thing we did was cover it with black spray. About every four years however, it starts to come off.

When my agent friend came over, she remarked at how 'new' everything looked-- this, in a house that's 25 years old and the remodel we completed another 12. Thank you Home Depot.

Crack-addict boyfriend be-gone

This evening I'm talking to my girlfriend Kelly on the phone, (you remember her, the one who got hit on by the cuter waiter at the Italian joint, followed by the serenade from the mafia don), when lo, I see her car at the Tiger Mt Country Store. I pull in to see her lounging in the front of this cute, western-style convenient store that is appropriate for our neck of the world, covered in pink from head to toe, looking like a candy-striper from Santa's elf shop out on a smoking break. Since my car is in the shop, I pull up in my husband's hee-haw pick-em up truck, missing the small animals that rumble up from the nether regions of the woods to see if, in fact, an earthquake is occurring, and go sit by Kel on the park bench.

After we get done talking about her slippers, her fingernails and how she's gone "all girl" on me, the lights start to dim and the cashier comes out to yip at Kelly the store is closing, and if she "wants her soda now, she better get it." The words were said with humor, and it's clear the cashier is on familiar terms with my friend in her PJs.

Picture me & my friend Kel (in pink PJs) sitting
at the park-bench thing, kickin it. You should join. It's a good time.

I find this interesting, for I myself, have oft frequented this little shack in the woods, and nary a smile do I usually get from this young woman, though I did mention to Kelly she's become markedly nicer to me, and for lack of a better phrase, more "present."

"It's like she's been undergoing a transformation," I told Kelly. Gone is the nose-ring, lip ring, orange and yellow hair. Her skin has cleared up. Her eyes aren't glassy anymore, and quite frankly, she smiles and looks like she's gotten a good night's rest. "When I talked to her before, it was like she was seeing through me."

Kelly nodded like she understood, and in her quippish, "I'm-a-counselor-mode" (which she is by professional actually), she says, "well her crack-addict boyfriend got arrested and is in jail, so of course she's better."

Well. That says it all I guess. I had no idea. It was her crack-addict boyfriend, who also used to work at the store, who helped me get my car keys from a crack in the wood slats on a Friday night after they fell out of my purse. He always smiled and was very social. Of course, he was missing a few critical teeth here and there, his face was sallow and sort-of yellow, and his hair was colors not found in nature, but whatever. I'd never have guessed.

"Your so naive," she tells me. I suppose. It's not like I have crack-radar or something. He wasn't holding me up, nor being rude. All is well now in our little part of the woods. I, like hundreds of others, continue to stop by, fill up, grab some food and be on our merry way. Tonight, I'm a bit merrier however, knowing that with one-less crack addict boyfriend, another woman is finding her way and letting her bright light shine through.

May sunshine in the form of 3 new beauty finds

Between doing the hair and make-up for a People Mag photo shoot and working on the set of a sci-fi action film, Melanie dragged me to Sephora for the latest.

"You have to have these new colors--and OH! the best new eyeliner and eyemakeup has just come out." I roll my eyes. This coming from a woman who has an entire basement the size of my garage, stacked with make-up. What could possibly ever be new, interesting or necessary?

"You just trust me. Have I ever been wrong?" Nope. I bite my tongue and we go find three things that sure enough, I liked, but didn't love, until later. I then went back in, and ordered on-line because she was right, after all.

From Jesse James to better things, like makeup!

Find #1. Kat Von D's Tatoo eyeliner. Melanie's reason to buy. "There is no other liquid eyeliner on the market that dries this fast (in less than 2 seconds) and lasts until you take it of. Not one!"
 (Melanie has hundreds, literally). She whipped out the eyeliner, slapped it on her wrist then after 2 seconds, tried to rub it off. It was going no-where. No smudge. No rub. Get this. I did, and I love it.

I simply love this. I can't believe how
many looks I can get from this great box.
Bonus? It's travel proof!

Find #2. Too Faced: Naked Eye Soft and Sexy. Also at Sephora. Mel liked it because "it's nearly impossible to make yourself look bad. Even an idiot can put this on and look great." Normal, blunt make-up artist that she is.

But it's true. I'm that idiot, and I couldn't put it on wrong. Here's the tip-- a number of pallets exist for different skin tones etc. Pick the one right for you. No matter what, I almost always feel more comfortable wearing less than more (much to my husband's dismay), but to thy self be true.

Find #3. Jergen's self-tanning lotion. Remember I wrote the blog earlier this year on the latest and greatest in self-tanners? Jergen's didn't make the list, not because it didn't work, but because the noxious odor was too strong. Great news. They changed the formula. I gave it another shot (I am a sucker for Jergens, it was what my long-dead grandmother used to use) and now my husband can't stop smelling me. It's like I'm an-essence-of-bbq dog bone around a dog. For $8 bucks US, you can't go wrong. (Dior may have prettier packaging, but this works better).

The Russian, the gang member and me

Where else in America can individuals of all walks of life gather for an hour, prostrate themselves, sweat, moan and groan and then listen to a poem on loving everyone and everything other than a hot yoga studio, located in the middle of a strip mall in a town named after a long-dead Indian tribe.

It wasn't until 8:15 pm last night, Pacific time, when my European friends were just starting their day, and my readers down under were busy probably having a drink, that I was in the dark with forty-something other strangers, on my back, eyes closed, body wet from the exertion of holding poses for a minute and a half in 104 degrees that I was told to stop it.

"Just stop thinking," the yoga teacher said, reminding more of a drill sergeant than a swami. "Not work. Not home. Not the kids. Nothing. Let it all go."

Imagine this on the gang members arm. When his
built muscle moved, so did the staircase

I tried. Really I did. But what kept coming back to me was the mid-thirties Russian gal to my right, who had kicked my butt in the balancing session, despite being twenty-five pounds heavier than me (which one would think might affect the ballet pose, what with falling over and all), and the gang-member in the back row, who kept having to lie down. I had a hard time not looking at his tattoo-covered body, (he did have a nice body, and it was not really covered, save his baggy shorts). Down his arm he had a mural that rivaled the hand of god, and across his other shoulder down to his tricep was some sort of interlocking pattern that was as fascinating as the moving staircase in Harry Potter.

"I'm going to end tonight's session with a poem," said Erica, the boot camp instructor. For a moment, I thought she was kidding. In all my years of on and off yoga'ing (another Don-Kingism I just made up. authors can do that), I've never had a poem at the end. This was supposed to be quiet meditation.

Lest you worry that I'm going to recite a poem, fear not. I can't remember all the words. I was thinking about the interesting nature of people who come together, have toxins squeezed out of every pore for an hour, then sit in a darkened room and hear about love.

"Love yourself," Erica continued. "Love others. Love God. Love your friends and family, but first, love yourself." That got me thinking some more. We weren't at church, but I'm hearing about God. Now, I'm a God-friendly sort-of-a-gal, but what about everyone else? We had to have at least a few counter-culture folks, an athiest or two, but here we all were, breathing deeply (through the mouth I hope, for the place gets really stinky when so many bodies are puking out their toxins), listening to admonitions about loving God. No where else, even in school, is this allowed.

"When life is hard. Friends turn aside. Clouds are grey. Love yourself." Yep, I thought. We all have down times. Each and everyone of us. And who hasn't had a friend walk away a time or two? Family members ebb and flow in and out of our lives with the tides of marriage, divorce and child-rearing. "When you go home, remember to love yourself. Only that way can you remember to love those around you."

Erica ended with a Namaste, and an "I love you, too." The group joined in a Namaste back, and I heard someone yip a 'love you too Erica.' In the din of the heat fans, I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman. For that brief minute or two, I was joined with the Russian and the gang member and all the rest of the group, feeling a little bit of the love.

Little Black Raincloud of a Personality

During a conversation with the ever-famed, oft-quoted She in my life, we were discussing a mutual acquaintance who, shall we say, has a difficult personality. Sort of toxic, like a porcupine, difficult to love but certainly contains a heart, someone underneath all those poisonous spokes. Because I've been working on reducing both gossip and negative comments about others (I save both for this blog, but even it has become slightly watered-down), I was at a loss about what to say, for who can abide by the mother-of-all-sayings, 'if you can't say something good, don't say anything at all."

Once again, She had the answer.

"I don't say anything at all about The Little Black Rain cloud." The moment She said the phrase, I thought of Winnie the Pooh, where he's pretending to be a little black rain cloud, hovering above the honey tree, as he attempts to fool the bees as he scams a handful of honey.

"That's what she is," my sage-of-wisdom friend confirmed. "Whenever she comes on the scene, it's like a black rain cloud has cut off the sun."

It got me thinking. Instead of using all sorts of names to describe someone who temporarily takes the sunshine out of my life, I call them a little black rain cloud. The four words remove any animosity or ill will I could possibly have, for who can but smile at a little stuffed Pooh?

A Mother's Day To Remember

Forget a nice recipe, appreciative thought or other nicety from this household on Mother's Day 2012. I'm coming to you from the world of reality. My reality.

For those of you who can't, or don't believe all my crazy
stories, I offer you exhibit A. The foot. Swollen. On the couch.
"You writing a blog?" asks Rog. Why else would I take
a picture of his swollen foot??

It started at 6:30 with an exuberant six-year old waking me up to give me a gift. I loved it. Gimpy (aka Rog) hobble up the stairs, a victim of being bashed between a 200-pounder and the rink wall of the hockey game last night.

"I would have made you breakfast, but in the third game, another guy crushed me." No big.

I go to feed P-dog, who is gympy herself, having had the third cancer tumor removed from the top of her back. This one was only a Grade-2 mass-cell. Had it been a grade 3, she would be missing a patch of skin and muscle on her back the size of a hand, instead of a golf ball.

Proceed to daughter's stomach hurting, but we pass it off as hunger pangs. We have lunch. In the 80 degree heat, but with the outdoor windchill, probably 57 on a good day.

Exhibit B. Sick daughter. In my bed.
fuzzy bathrobe & all.

My 2 year old disappears, then returns proudly, announcing, "cucks on floor momma," (cucks being Swedish slang for poop). Mom (that would be me in this instance), gets up, as gympy is out of commission. Sure enough, two hit the mark, one hit out of bounds. All good, as my twenty-year old would say, and he might have, had I told him when he called to wish me Happy Mother's Day. I spared him however. He  doesn't need to hear about his sister's defacation prowess.

Exhibit C. Bald patch sure.
But it beats a Grade 2 mass cell.

"Mom, I'm hot," says Porsche, bringing me back to reality, gripping her stomach. She complains of chills. My other daughter wails. I'm ready to go home (for we had been out with friends for lunch, a first for us in the last two years).

One panel of our car. 3 are done-for.

There we are, minding our own business, when a man suddenly flies at me, through the air like a misguided Superman, his face hitting my passenger side window. I hear the horrid crunching sound, followed by the tearing metal-on-metal that made my back crawl. Our tank-like car barely moves. Unfortunately, the biker who raced from behind our car, into on-coming traffic wasn't moving either. The poor driver of a Buick (one of those dark maroon, 70's type big cars), emerges, himself half-dazed at what occurred.

The kind officer of the SPD told
us to have a better Mother's Day

Two fire trucks, two police cars and one ambulance later, we are on our way home. The entire right side of my car going in for a face lift.

We come home.  I carry one daughter to bed, give her concoction, carry the other down to her bed, wrap her up, place a bag of frozen peas on my husband, handing him the remote for Call of Duty and a blanket. My dog? She's as wiped out as I feel.

White bear. the only one in the family who caught
some
rest today. 

Mother's don't get a break, even on Mother's day.

Overheard at the salon: Geriatrics on the Prowl

Today I finally realized why movies continue to get made about the gossip at barbershops, hair salons or gas stations. The fodder is better than anything that could be invented.

"I follow him around, about three car lengths, just to make sure he doesn't have a girlfriend," said a woman at a nail station across an aisle from my luxe barco-o-lounger salon chair. My eyes popped open, even as I tried to ignore the salacious comment. I couldn't help myself. The woman's voice was high-pitched and wobbly. Her shoulder length, chestnut-colored hair ended where her white, cotton long-sleeve shirt began. As I looked down at the rest of her body, she had knee-length kahkis and tan, woven wedges.  "And those ankle bracelets, I got him one of those, just so I can track him down," she finished, then laughed, a cackle that bounced off the soft, white walls.

Oh, I don't know honey. The brown matches your coloring
so much better.....

It was the last statement that got me. She wasn't forty, or fifty. The woman had to be in her mid-to-late seventies. The aesthetician lifted the woman's bony wrist, dark freckles dotting the wrinkled hand and wrist, excepting for the part covered by a trendy gold and brown man's watch.

As I sat there in my luxo-lounger, my back feeling like it has the hands of Goliath moving up and down my spine, I figured that women of all ages worry about men scatting around, not just the forty-year-old desperate somethings.

I closed my eyes, already descending back in to my bliss when it occurred to me she was only half kidding. The woman went on to talk about the women at the golf club, and how they'd be after her husband in a hot New York second if she weren't around.

TMI. My eyes popped open again, I started removing the lovely, lavendar-filled gloves that covered my parafin-slathered hands.  She was killing my pre-mother's day groove. "But I'm here now," she continued, unabated. "But next year, when I turn eighty, they might not wait any longer. At least my finger nails will look good for our Mother's Day celebration." She turned to her left then, revealing a face as withered as an autumn leaf.

As I prepared to leave the previously quiet inner sanctum that was the salon, I wanted to tell the woman that if your pre-mother's prepping involves talk of fitting your husband with an ankle bracelet, not only must he be one hot geriatric, but to listen to her female intuition. Something is definitely afoot at the Circle K.

The 'death city,' hot flashes and acupuncture

What kind of state can boast the city with the most rainfall in the United States (thanks Twilight) and yet the highest rate of cancer? Strange enough, lore has it that the cancer rate is off the charts due to the fact that we get so little sun, that when the bright stuff shines through, people run out half-naked, lathered up in oil with a factor of negative in order to increase the chances of a quick tan. The burns turn cancerous. The few smart ones that avoid the sun ironically suffer from multiple sclerosis. Seattle also has the highest rate of the MS on the Earth, not just the US. The combination has earned this fair city what Seattle-natives call the death city. Nice.

And while I'm there, I'm going to Bora Bora
on a yacht.

MS was not a part of my vocabulary until two of my good friends, both in their early 40's, were diagnosed with the degenerative, incurrable disease this last year. $10,000 a month in a medications. Their insurance will cover 60%, leaving them a $4K bill every month, out of pocket. That sucks the wind right out of a families' finance -12,000 in WA alone.

This led me to the auction dinner I attended two nights ago (another finance-sucking topic). Going to an auction is like getting dressed up for a flight. You are entering an environment full of complete strangers whom you will likely never see again, and thus, are endowed with an unnatural sense of freedom, both in terms of discussing topics that would take years to explore in any other sane environment.

Friday night proved to be no exception. It wasn't long before the topics had covered employment (sales and real estate by our immediate companions), children (they were both divorced, with children and dating), activities (she travels alone and he is a helicopter pilot in his free time) and the similarities to us: both men avoid water and cruises like the plague, she and think golf is akin to watching moss grow.

And what could be more airplane-like than talking about female "issues."

"A year ago I started having hot flashes," she tells me, out of the blue. She said she's 44, and her date just gave a smile, as though he'd heard this before. Call me kooky, but no man smiles when the phrase hot flashes is said. "Here's the secret. Go to an acupuncturist. The needles in my ears made me want to scream, but before she did it, the woman said 'me give you needles,' the woman told me. 'you have no more hot flashes.'" Sure enough, that was it. "It's been a year and a half. Not a single hot flash."

Sure enough, I go on line to look at the research, and walla. I read a report validating her experience.

From me to you, dear readers. One auction. Lots of extraneous information, all for that little bit of advice that I'll bank for now, and be sure to use later in life when it's required.

PS. no wonder her date was smiling.

Meals over feelings

Yesterday I learned a woman I know has stage 2, triple-negative breast cancer. It's spread to the lymph nodes. Her hair is already going due to chemo. She will shortly undergo a double mastectomy, followed by radiation. She has three children, a husband, a dog and cat. This is an aggressive form of cancer, with a rate of recurrance twice as high as other forms. She's 33.

During the call, I was asked if I'd sign up to make and deliver meals. Without hesitation, I agreed. When the link to takethemameal.com showed up in my email, I registered, picked a date at time and hit send.

sign up for a group effort to take someone a meal

Two things have been on my mind since that conversation last night. The first is I love that technology is now taking the place of such archaic forms of coordination, such as the sign-up sheet at church. Must faster. Infinitely more accurate. The second is that this is the woman who wouldn't friend me on Facebook, never invited me to her pool parties that included all the children in the class but mine. She's also the individual who wouldn't look me in the eye at school functions nor return my calls/emails/texts
about getting our daughters together after school (despite begging from each).

Despite two years of indirect inquiries to get to the bottom of the behavior, I never did learn the root of the issue. It wasn't like an altercation occurred. Just the opposite. Showing up for school events, drop offs and pick-ups, engaging in polite chit-chat. The end. Some knew of the interesting behavior, but we shrugged our shoulders. I didn't have my feelings hurt, but I did feel for my daughter, who was on the receiving end of not being invited etc., but luckily, at 5 and 6, was a bit on the young side to worry too much about it.

I'm sure I'll never know what's behind the door to this woman's personality. It doesn't matter really. She's in need. She's hurting, and not just physically. Give service to those in need. Clothe the naked. Feed the hungry. That's what it's all about.

Flawless skin in 5 minutes

Who doesn't want to have women glare and men stare at your face now and then, for reasons other than a zit or blemish. After a session with Melanie's airbrush, I experienced the shock and awe of others who peered close for second glance. Was it my makeup or my skin?

What's so great about an airbrush
The airbrush is the key to high-definition. It fills in, smooths out, evens out, and lifts up the skin color and tone. It's the reason why certain stars are still on television and movies (before airbrushing, certain stars included terms in their contracts requiring the producers to go back and retouch the skin in order to make it appear smooth). Make-up from an airbrush also lasts several days--though it's not recommended for oily skin. It doesn't come off, wear off or change colors throughout the day.

Complete set of brush, makeup, cleaner and container

In short, airbrushing is a miracle. The best part? It can be had for less than you pay for a nice dinner and a couple of drinks. So read on and start saving up.

Airbrush 101
First off, I'm not talking about 're-touching,' the common phrase for doctoring a photo of a celeb who wants wrinkles removed, and is done by using software on a computer.  I'm talking about using an actual, physical airbrush that applies make-up to the phase.

Let's cut right to the myths. The long-held truths that I held dear right up until the time when I sat down in Melanie's chair and watched her whip out a small metal object, about the size of a potato peeler.

I balked and she talked. Specifically, about the myths of airbrushes and airbrushing. Top of my list included:  a) expensive, b) time consuming, c) painful and d) only for the young and vain.

In a matter of minutes, I learned the following.
1. expense is relative. Over the counter make-up is $20-$200, depending on what is purchased over and over again throughout the year, and over the course of a lifetime. The quality is less than a high-definition airbrush. The one-time expense of an airbrush can range from $100-$300. The liquid make-up, made for all types of skin colors, lasts months. Complete sets can be had for less than $200.

2. time consuming. It took Melanie less than 1 minute to apply the makeup via airbrush (and this was for foundation and blush). My first time was 15, including cleaning the tip at the end. Now it's less than 5 minutes, cleaning included. That's actually less time than it took me to apply foundation, powder and blush.

3. painful. Nope. Not at all. However, one of my mistakes was holding the tip 3 inches away. This felt prickly and completely destroyed the point of an airbrush. Melanie showed me how to keep it 6 inches away (about a hand length for non-Americans), so it goes on perfectly.

4. only for the young and vain. Let's face it. The young don't need an airbrush, unless the skin is splotchy. It's the not-so-young (over 18?) that need the stuff.

Recommendations
For make-up, I use what the professionals use (by professionals, I mean every single professional make-up artist on commercials and movies) use the Temptu airbrush make-up. They don't necessarily use the applicator, since the pro's have industrial metal versions. But the consumer version is solid and easy to handle. After starting with the Temtpu kit, I graduated and got a $300 pro version (the kind used by the movie professionals), but stick with the Temptu makeup.

Here are a few tutorials. The first on applying the make-up. Lots of videos about on youtube.

Applications and Tips

Foundation
Two types of foundations...the daily and the 'tanner.' I have a lighter, liquid base I use for most occasions. When I want a bit of a tan, I mix two colors together so I don't look like I forgot to wash.

Tip: the foundation must be shaken first. Do this, then pour several drops in to the top of the airbrush make-up holder. If mixing, combine both then place your finger over the end of the airbrush, while turning the airbrush on. This blends the liquid for an even color.

Blush Tips
I found that using the pressed powder after applying the airbrush make-up (as told to do by the pros), will sometimes wipe off the application, so go very lightly. Every time I applied blush it would come off. I then purchased the blush, and have been thrilled. It takes a minute to clean out the airbrush (using the airbrush oil), a few drops of the blush liquid and 2 swipes on the cheek and walla!

Tanning
Haven't you ever wondered how Jennifer Aniston sports the perfect tan year-round? Airbrushing. But say NO to the spa version for $100 (Unless you need your back done. Then you may need to call upon an expert). For your legs, arms, neck and face--the parts that are typically visible when you go out on a date, you are your own best make-up professional (I can see a Russian woman whipping out an airbrush as I type this).

Tips
The key here is not to go too dark. Take a bit of the make-up and put it on your leg/arm/neck before you start airbrushing. You need to have a nice transition. Also, you can make yourself a bit darker by applying additional layers, but don't over do it. The whole point of using an airbrush is it doesn't look like you are wearing makeup at all!

Number One Tip:
Apply in natural sun. The most common mistake (which I made) was to apply the make-up in our master bathroom that has very limited natural light. The result is that I overapplied in some areas but under in others.

Number Two Tip:
Get your face waxed first, or keep the hair on your face very, very short. Airbrushing and the powder (if you use it), will enhance the look of the facial hair moreso than traditional foundation. This is because foundation is rather heavy and usually oily, thus pushing down the hair to a flat position. The airbrush is light and airy. If you are resemble a hair bigfoot, it's going to show.