Marili Forastieri/Digital Vision/Getty Images
As someone who can't be bothered to bend over to untie and tie my own shoes, I'm the first to say that people who earn their living beautifying feet are worth every cent they get. I earn my living from home, which means I spend about 23 hours of every day shoeless, which is how I got my nickname, Shoeless Joe Kristi. It's also why my feet are not what most people would call "beach ready" or "presentable" or "entirely human."
For those of you who don't think twice about the undersides of your feet and have no idea what I'm talking about, people who get regular pedicures pay tens of dollars to have their feet soaked, scrubbed, massaged, and painted until crackly old dead skin is transformed to glass-smooth sexy skin.
And this is absolute torture for people who are ticklish.
I'd rather resign myself to having Hobbit hooves than commit to letting strangers scrub the undersides of my feet on a regular basis. The good news is that Pinterest has a foot soak recipe that will do the dirty work of sloughing off dead skin without all the unnecessary pain that comes with a typical pedicure.
"This is crazy."
According to the tutorial, all you have to do is soak your feet in a tub of Listerine, vinegar, and hot water for 10 minutes. When your feet emerge from their bath, everything will be right with the world, and no one will judge your orange-ish rubbery soles again. Here I am soaking my size 7s in a foil roaster that will definitely go in the trash and not host a turkey when this is all over.
Psych! Thanksgiving dinner will come from this roaster.
And here I am 10 minutes later, realizing that there is now a solid blue line of demarcation on my sole, my toes and toenails are green, and all the dead skin is still there -- but tingles. Almost as if it just took a bath in mouthwash.
It tingled all day.
And here I am realizing that sandals are off the table for me for the next day or so, that I should stop being so gullible, and that I probably crossed the line from brave to straight up ignorant hours ago and gangrene toes are my justly deserved punishment.
It tingled all day.
There's no point in stopping now. Might as well finish what I started and end this slapdash day of beauty with something that I can't possibly regret.
Ryan McVay/Photodisc/Getty Images
Everyone on the planet falls into one of three categories, tattoo-wise: Tattoo People, Tattoo People Who Regret Being Tattoo People, and People Who Are Inexplicably Proud of Being Tattoo-Free Like It's Some Kind of G-D Virtue. (It's not.) People care that you're tattoo-free in the same way that they care about the shows you don't watch -- they don't. Which is why my New Year's resolution was to stop introducing myself as Mrs. Kristi No Ink. I'll never make any friends if I don't stop.
For my last Pinterest tutorial, I decided to go bold and get a discreet but temporary tattoo. The rules of this beauty makeover day required that I not spend any money, so it was important that I find a tutorial that only used stuff I had in my house. Pinterest had just the ticket.
Meaningful, yet delicate.
All I needed was a Sharpie marker, hairspray, and my old friend baby powder. Flushed with the excitement of finally looking as dangerous and sassy as I am in my head, I locked myself in the bathroom and gave zero thought to what I was doing before I started drawing. Previous highfalutin notions of using my body as an introspective canvas went out the window as I drew the very first thing that came to mind:
Translation: Rihanna :P
Looking back now, I think I see where I went wrong. It wasn't a fine Sharpie pen, but a big fat blue Sharpie marker. And I shouldn't have sprayed the tattoo immediately, because the wetness made the ink bleed into my skin more than it would have otherwise. Oh, and I probably should have sketched out a few ideas before playing the word association game on my own skin. It turns out that in my head Tattoo = Rihanna Silly Face. Maybe because Rihanna has a bunch of tattoos and I felt silly for drawing on myself? Or maybe I wish I could be the goofy version of Rihanna but I forgot Miley Cyrus exists? These are all questions I'll ask my therapist when I remember to get one.
The good news is that this sweet ink was already blending nicely into my still-green toes, so I started thinking about my next tat, which I wanted to be illustrative while representing who I am as a woman. Five seconds later, the deed was done.
Looking back, I probably should have fully internalized the lessons from the first tattoo from the minute before. Just because I know how to draw a house doesn't mean that this was a good choice for a tattoo (even though I clearly know how to draw a house). And just because house-drawing is something that I'm really good at doesn't mean I need to brag by semi-permanently advertising my skills on my wrist. Architect College is not an option for me right now and I don't have time to start another career as an excellent house-drawer. Who knows how many millions of people will ask me to draw their house based on this column alone?
By the end of the day, the bleeding haunted cartoon house on my wrist was the only beauty hack I was happy with, and even it washed off when I couldn't stand my redfro, eye junk, insanely clogged pores, and blue feet anymore. Do I feel cheated? NO. Not counting the day I was born, this was the best day of my life. And I'd do a Pinterest tutorial-a-thon again in a heartbeat if you send me your favorite Pinterest tutorials on Facebook. Don't think I won't.