Curling Iron Catastrophe

I blame my mother for not instructing me how to look like a lady. I don't know how to wear or use makeup. I don't know what moisturizer is for. I don't understand the concept of facials, and I don't know how to wear heels. My mother did teach me about where all the various silverware go on the table and that at lunch your napkin is folded half way on your lap, and at dinner, it's fully spread out.

Don't get me wrong though. My mother is one hot tottie. She knew how to make herself up. You can see for yourself on the right.

Maybe it was because I was a tomboy when I was little I was never interested in learning all of the stuff that women are supposed to know about making themselves beautiful. Maybe I never really thought about the aging process. Maybe I should have taken an interest in all that girly crap; it might have saved me from the pain and embarrassment when my girly fashionable friends talk about their skin or a nail polish or their hair stylist or whatever. 

My BFFs parent's are successful hairdressers in Arizona. She is always receiving products from her mother: lotions, soaps, skin products, makeup, hair brushes, waxes, etc. She usually pawns all the crap she doesn't want off on me because I am naive when it comes to everything that is beauty products, so I'll try anything. In reality, most of the stuff sits underneath my sink unused; not because I don't like it; I don't understand it.

One pre-Thanksgiving extravaganza she brought out the big guns: a hair straightener and a curling iron. Top of the line. Girly sluts all over the world would drool at the sight of these designer hair tools. Before that, I had had my hair straightened once when I went to Boston where my film was screening. I was really overjoyed and told my friend who straightened it that, 'I think I look like Cher!" My friend kept telling me, "You don't look like Cher, but you do look good." 

Cher

Me

                                 


 I had used a curling iron before. I had those really cool detachable all in one hair accessories from the 90's. "It's a crimper, spiraled curling iron, and regular curling iron in one." My uncle Geno bought it for me and it was the only one I had ever owned until my BFF gave me her moms leftovers.

I hadn't really touched either of them until I had a reason to. Being a teacher, it's stupid to dress up at work. Who is there to look good for? I know those kids have snot on their hands, because I am constantly telling them to stop picking their nose. So, why curl my hair? But then the moment of opportunity came when I was invited to a Russian Sweet Sixteen Party.

I don't think any of you people, besides the Russians, or the people who partook of the short lived "Russian Dolls" series on Bravo, understand what a Russian party is like. It's serious business. Every Russian party I have ever been to has been more expensive than my wedding. We're talking table decor, custom designed dresses, extravagant catered meals, a famous D.J., lots and lots of free booze, and go-go dancers with light up skirts. Yes. Go-go dancers with light up skirts. Every guest takes a picture with the birthday girl. Here's the birthday girl, Me, and My husband: the magnificent nerd.

I look cute, right? Well all the Russians thought I was wearing a sweater, because they were all wearing tight short black dresses and heavy makeup, but whatever. If you see me most of the time, this is a drastic improvement.

So, obviously this was a BIG event for me, because I knew that I had to look my best. I had to do my hair. So, I decided to not only straighten it, but also to use a curling iron. When I was getting ready for the party, I was happy, because I was looking cute, and I was finally going to look like Cher again and then...the unthinkable. One slip of the hand and BOOM! I burned my face with the curling iron. I didn't think it was that bad; I felt some throbbing pain. But when I woke up the next morning I was faced with this:

I thought it was going to last forever. I had finally done it. After years and years of burning my arms from taking chicken pot pies out of the oven I had entered klutz masters paradise: I had singed my face.

After this catastrophe my friend sent me this video of how to curl your hair. http://www.refinery29.com/curling-iron-curls-how-to-video
This blew my mind because I had never curled my hair that way. I had always started from the ends and worked my way upward. Oh, how wrong was I? Why hadn't my mom taught me this ingenious way to keep me from burning my precious face? Why had I been kept in the dark for so long? Why at thirty am I finding out all the secrets to life? Why Mom? Why?

Update: Everyday I Neopsorined the crap out of it, because I stupidly lent out my Mederma to my gay friend (who lends out their burn cream?) and amazingly the burn that could have followed me to my grave disappeared. Neosporin you are my hero.

The toe nail

Yes. It happened to me. I actually didn't think it ever happened at all, but after you lose a toe nail people share their stories about how they lost their dear nimble friends.

But, I never thought it would happen to me.

I was at my cousin's engagement party on their family ranch. It was clear on the invitation that it was on a ranch and to wear you dancing shoes. I guess I should have been a little more insightful when reading this invitation, because when I got there everyone was decked out in their ruffled skirts and cowboys boots, whilst I was in my bright blue wrap around dress from Ross and simple sandals. Oh well, it's me, Gigi, the kooky broke distant cousin. I can pull off this outfit by having a good time.

There was a woman there that stood out from the crowd too. She was plump, had frizzy hair, and wore Bobbie socks. She was like me; I felt comforted by her presence. Little did I know that this woman would have a hand into me losing my little friend, my toenail.

She was the hoe-down instructor. Yes. I went to a party where there was a hoe-down instructor, and it was really really fun in the beginning. I got to dance with all the funny old men at the party and watch my spouse flirt with all the giggly old ladies. It wasn't until I was partnered with my step-father that I felt the pain of a thousand ton elephant slamming all it's weight on my darling big toe. That is not to say that my step-father is an elephant. He is quite an attractive guy. In fact, he used to look like that guy who played The Rocketeer. That night he was wearing his steel toed boots and I, as I said before, was wearing a mere strappy sandal.

We were in the middle of do-si-doing when the dude standing next to my step-father finally recognized him hours after the small party had commenced and in his drunken hazed glee pushed my step father into me crushing my darling big toe.

Being the avid dancer, I kept dancing. I think my big toe was in shock because I didn't really feel pain. I stopped dancing when I realized that the liquid in between my foot and sandal wasn't sweat. It was blood.

I calmly sat down not wanting to cause a scene, but when I got a look at the thing I started to panic. Luckily all of my cousins are pre-med, and they bandaged my big toe, but informed me that I would probably have to part with the nail. I sat out the rest of the party and decided to drink heavily instead. I wasn't going to let a toe stop me from having a good time. It wasn't until my mother came up to me in a drunken haze and stepped on my toe once more that I decided to call it quits. And I never leave a party early.

The toenail stayed on for quite awhile. It was white and rubbery for awhile. It stayed that way for months. I thought that maybe I could keep it. But alas, as I was chatting on the phone with my BFF I was playing with it and all of a sudden. Crack. It loosened. Being a frequent lover of disgusting bodily things; I thought it might be a good idea to rip it off with my BFF on the phone. We were chatting casually as I squrimed to get the right angles to document this event on my webcam, only to pause to sever the nail from my flesh. Shush."Ahhhhhhhh. Ohhhhhh." I held the nailed up to the light, "Weird." So this is what success feels like.

                   You can't really see my naked toe, but it sorta looks like a Cabbage Patch doll.

My Life with Posion Oak Part III (the final chapter...I hope)

So, we have come up to date with the battle of my terrible ailment that has cockblocked me for years. My mother always said that boys were intimidated by my confidence, so that's why they never had a crush on me or told me I was cute. I think that was true 95% of the time, but the other 5% was probably due to my constant battle with Poison Oak outbreaks.

The most recent time I got it when I was twenty nine and visiting my parents for Christmas. Their house is in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by woods, I didn't go and frolic in them this time, because it was raining during my stay. They have three dogs that were having to weather the storm on the porch. I felt bad for the dogs, so I went out in the rain to pet them. Poor things. Poor things? No. Assholes is more like it! Those dogs are assholes.

It wasn't until I was back in the city, a wonderful concrete jungle where the only discomfort is the sulfuric smell of urine, that I started to notice a rash spreading on my upper arm. At first, I thought it was ringworm. I got ringworm once from trying on pants from a thrift store. I think they were pants belonging to an old man, because in the 90's I was way into the "old man" look, which the navy polyester pants seemed only to suit an old man in his 70's or me. I never dreamt that it could be a visit from my rashy friend Poison Oak. I hadn't been outside or around it. How the hell did I contract it? I was only petting the dogs. THE DOGS! Here is a site that proves dogs are assholes:  They can't get it but they can spread it.

Apparently you can contract the heinous rash from a dogs fur. If a dog dashes through a field of the of the dreadful plant, the oil can and will attach to their stupid fur. If a human feels sorry for a dog and pets it then they will get poison oak (with the exception of people who cannot.) Both of my parents were always incredulous when I would come home with a it. They would laugh and say, "Geez Geege I could roll around in the stuff and never get it." Yeah, that made me feel a lot better Mom and Dad. I guess it's not genetic. So, the lesson is simple: never pet your dog you might get poison oak and parents are sometimes kind of lame.

I had to make myself feel better, so I decided to gross out others and start to document my delicious rash and post it on the Internet. It's weird what people respond to. I had more comments on the state of my rash than when I posted about meeting Andre 3000 at a movie theater. People got so into it that they kept badgering me to blog about it, and you can thank those people right now; they are the true heroes.

                                 My arm covered in Calamine Lotion (which doesn't help for shit):

                                         A couple weeks after my horrible discovery:

And the grand finale: The rash that was once oozing from my flesh is all dried up in the picture below, but the scar left behind tells another tale:

 
I can honestly say that I know my dreaded friend and I will meet again. Later than sooner I hope. But the Oak is not the only dreadful thing in my dimwitted stream of bad luck. There's more...

My Life With Poison Oak (or Ivy) Part II

 My second noteworthy occurrence with Poison Oak happened while attending S.U.N.Y Purchase in New York. I was twenty. Technically, what I refer to as Poison Oak from my native state, California, is a similar plant called Poison Ivy in New York. Here is further discussion about said argument:

 Poison Oak vs. Poison Ivy

I don't remember how I got this Poison Ivy, but the end result was similar to 5th grade experience, because it ended up all over my face completely disfiguring me and another break up with a boy. This picture doesn't do the rash justice, but to understand the severity, compare the eyes.

                                       

At the time I was "hooking up" with a guy. I called him my boyfriend, but he wasn't. I didn't really understand what the term "hooking up" meant. Despite my blistered swollen mess of a face, I didn't hide my face in shame. I went to class and hung around with friends. Against the doctors orders I smoked cigarettes, knowing full well that I could be inhaling Poison Ivy into my mouth and lungs (that didn't happen, thank God).

One of those days I was hanging out at my friends house and the "hooking up" guy was lounging on a couch reading a book. I hadn't seen him in awhile and had heard a rumor that he was "hooking up" with this white girl with dread locks. I was offended by this for two reasons 1) because she smelled of patchouli and 2) Because no white girls should ever have dreadlocks under any circumstances.
So obviously I wanted to gain his attention in hopes he would see my beautiful face and forget about this lame dreadlocked girl, so I grabbed the book he was calmly reading, rubbed it all over my face, and then handed it back to him. I thought we'd have a laugh about my horrible face and myabe makeout? ( I really don't know what I was thinking.) Instead, he became severely disturbed and started yelling at me. I was confused by this, but I yelled right back at him. I'm Italian. Italians only response to screaming is more screaming.

 The fight escalated with him holding an egg crate over his head and then throwing it at me. I ducked and it missed my head, but not my friends window. He immediately thought that he had contracted the Poison Ivy from my face and that he couldn't continue reading the book that he was half way through. We stopped hooking up after that and I started going to therapy.

                                                       I want to be like this guy:

                                                                   

How is all started: My Life with Poison Oak Part I

  

      When I was a kid, and to this day, Poison Oak has been the bane of my existence. Once my arm was so badly swollen that I wasn't able to wear long sleeved shirts for two weeks. I am so allergic that I don't even have to touch the stuff to contract it. It can be from the air or the touching something that has touched the deadly and toxic oil. The first notable "Gigi Nasty" occurrence was when I lost a 5th grade boyfriend because of my dreadful allergic reaction to my arch-nemesis: Poison Oak. 

  

        I grew up in a small town with a lot of open space and forest to play in. In my backyard Poison Oak was king. One day, while exploring in the forest with my friends, we I found a secret "waterfall" (probably an open sewer line.) The "waterfall" was hidden underneath brush and surrounded by Poison Oak. I thought that it would be okay if I entered the entrancing atmosphere as long as I took a shower and avoided the plant. Boy, was I wrong. The next morning I woke up screaming because my eyes were swollen shut. I looked liked the guy from that movie Mask with Cher.

 So, obviously, I didn't want my boyfriend, whom we all affectionately called Burrito Butt, to see my morphed appearance.

        The next day was Burrito Butt's birthday. It was common knowledge around our neighborhood that if you were "going out" with someone that you had to supply them with a gift. Before my disfiguring, I had gone to the quaint music store in my small town, and purchased the single of Whitney Houston (R.I.P) singing the National Anthem at the 1991 Superbowl. My Mom said it was a good gift. But, deep down, I knew I should have bought Pearl Jam. 

        Despite my unfortunate disfigurement, Burrito Butt insisted that he visit me, and we both knew that "going out" rules clearly state: birthdays are sacred and a gift must be delivered on the exact date of birth, or else the relationship is null and void. I tried to reason with Burrito Butt, but upon my better judgement, I relented and said he could come over; he would receive his cherished prize.

        When I opened the door, and he was bombarded with my disfigured melon, his eyes widened. I realized how horrible I looked when I saw his expression and I quickly dropped the gift bag into his hands, shut the door, ran into the bathroom, observed my horrible reflection in the mirror, and clutched my face while screaming.  

       He called me twenty minutes later and told me that we should probably stop "going out". Was it the fault of Whitney Houston's rendition of our National Anthem cassette or my face?  I wonder if I could ask him on facebook, or would that be too weird? I dunno, maybe he's reading this right now and can put an end to my tween curiosity. 

Oh, Whitney:

(I was always fascinated with the sweat that collected on her upper lip. Maybe it was because of all that crack she was smoking. Too soon?)

Hey! This is about me being a dumb ass! Read on!

     So, I never thought I would do a blog. "Blogs are lame," my boy toy/husband/inactive collaborator whined, "everyone has a blog. You should write your stupid screenplays."

     He's right. I should write my stupid screenplays and everyone does a have a blog. But, it wasn't until it was pointed out that I really love to post images on the Internets of all the horrible and totally preventable bodily accidents, that I realized: not only do I have stupid screenplays to write, but I also have stupid stories to tell! And they all can be filtered through my klutzy, naive, and idiotic behavior. This, I'm sure, is what you (the world) has been waiting for! Me! Talking about my sore back, burns, rashes and bowel movements, or lack thereof.

      So, if I've offended you in any way already, you probably don't want to read this blog. But if I haven't, read on! More beautiful sentimental stories about me getting myself into bodily debacles awaits! I promise to entertain, educate, and alleviate all of your pangs and curiosities as to the world of

                                                                Nasty Gigi.

(Me on the phone with my bestie as I pull off my dead toe nail. This true story and more of the truest and most sensational stories to come!)