sashayingpepper

Jocelyn Wildenstein, a wealthy American socialite, earned the title as the world's scariest celebrity owing to her being the poster girl to awful plastic surgery.

Wikipedia entry says, "She is known to have received several silicone injections to the lips, cheek, and chin along with a facelift and eye reconstruction to appear more "feline like".

The psychological purposes of cosmetic treatment has been hotly debated; however, most conclude she had the surgeries done in order to win back the affections of a billionaire husband who loved large wild cats. He was originally horrified and almost immediately filed for divorce."

And I wouldn't blame Wildenstein to dumped her. She needed more than just a corrective nose surgery in this case; she needs a new face, in fact.

Jocelyn's BEFORE picture:

This is HER now:

sashayingpepper

Second to small-time telemarketing, the next best thing to earning money within the comfort of your home is to dispose of some of your junks to ebay. After all, one man's thrash may be another man's treasure.

However, forethought is in order when packaging your product. Take for example this picture of a shiny, almost-new whistling kettle:

If you're going to be selling something that's shiny and would mirror reflection, take care that you're fully clothed before taking a snapshot of it. Ok?

P.S. For more information in how to put up your every own auction page, you can visit eBay forums .

sashayingpepper

"You know how it's scary to voice out you're happy or okay because the instant that the words come out of your mouth, something's bound to happen that would negate the joy you're feeling. And it would be better to pretend that you feel nothing so life won't get to you," Rain said in her text message for me one time that she was in one of her solitary bouts of 'what ifs'. Only this time, Happiness isn't an 'if' anymore but rather an 'is' in actuality. And she doesn't know how to handle this Happiness.

I imagined her, with furrowed brows in an irritable expression that can't make up its mind whether it would smile or frown.  Her eyes creeping with worry and sadness that she oftentimes wears like religious tattoos .  And her arms crossed in a defensive stance, as if the way she's feeling now is an attack of her person.

I, with thoughts fueled by my bilious cup of coffee, could very well understand how she's feeling because I was very much like her during my Pre-Schroo era.

"It is certainly hard handling something you're not used to," I murmured to myself, then wincing when I felt my stomach groan in acidic churning from the strong coffee I just imbibed. In front of a good brew, sometimes I just forget that my ulcer prohibits me to appreciate coffee in its splendid bitterness.

"However, there are things that one just need getting used to,"I said out aloud, while I was pouring an ample amount of milk and a bit of sugar to my refreshed cup, "and one of those is sweetened coffee."

And of course, I texted the other thing to Rain.

"Dearest, I was like that before. And now, I'm going to give you an advice that my own Schroo told me when I confided to him about my worries. He said, 'Don't think. Just be.' And you know what, honey? I've been and still continue to being."

Currently listening to: How's it Going to Be

sashayingpepper

A colleague just announced, over a cup of coffee at my favorite hang-out place in Ortigas, that she'll be moving on for real, after discovering that her separated husband of 29 years have ruled out getting back together since he already made plans of going to Mindanao and starting out a family with his girlfriend who is 31 years her junior.

Whew.

Anyweyz, she says she's moving on. No way is she going to call him at his office again for a chitchat whenever she's feeling lonely. No way is she going to pretend like everything is ok when they're in the same room together. No way is she going to plan a surprise birthday party for him again like she used to. No way is she going to stay at the condo unit she's renting that is situated at the upper floor of his estranged husband's office. No way, yes, no way is she going to put up with her eyebags and wrinkles induced by being so miserable throughout their separation.

No way, she said. No way.

That's why she's moving out of the country after she sold her car and unit, live in the care of her relatives in the US of A, and buy a new face.

Yup. She already contacted a New Jersey plastic surgery expert to give her a face lift. She says she needed change. No doubt, she'll get what she needed.

From me to you, dearest, Goodluck.

sashayingpepper

Britney has a tummy tuck, says most of the gossip columns after she gave birth to her second child. My take on this?

SO FUCKIN' WHAT???

So she went under the knife to hopefully get her once enviable abs... what's the big deal over it? Like it's a fuckin' shame for someone to get caught wanting to have a career again. It's not, lemme tell yah. It's not.

However, I read in Egotastic! about someone wanting the same thing... and lemme tell yah. Imma fart on her general direction in hope that she'll see sense:

Paris Hilton, what do you need a tummy tuck for? Click story here.

P.S. For those who wants a piece of perfection on your midsection (and you happen to be in San Jose,CA) you may want to click this: San Jose tummy tuck

sashayingpepper

I was surfing around the internet when I saw this: 

That's Teri Hatcher at the golden globe award, in case you never had any sort of relationship with your couch and tv remote control.

But just focus on the center of her face for a minute. See that? I know. That's one bad rhinoplasty, I tell you. That, or she's sporting the current fad of "pinched look for the 40+ women in Hollywood" way too far by putting clothespin on her nose and letting it stay overnight. I know, i know. That sounds stupid, but... you never know. After all, crazy stuff does go around Hollywood.

sashayingpepper

Many things had happened while I was away and letting this page rot like an uneaten sandwich shoved under the bed. I had thoughts of never writing here again, but here I am, pounding keys and thinking of posting this after I'm done pounding.

I know that this will not give any interest to any of you but I will still tell you of what I've been doing while in hiatus:

I went back to school. This time, in a creative field pursuing a licence that will enable me to invade your home. 

I went in mourning: I lost my favorite aunt. She was murdered by her uncle over an arguement with about the family lands.

I gained a sister. She's my favorite aunt's daughter.

I bared my buttcheeks for an exhibit with a famed photographer.

I fell in love. I'm still in love. And I will be in love.

No, I did nothing to my nose and never went to have rhinoplasty in Melbourne, Florida , Timbuktu or wherever parts of this world. 

And now, I'm back again. Writing whatever shit I may come up with.

*pounding ends here*

sashayingpepper

I started menstruation as early as 10 years old. So that means, by the time I was 12, I have boobs that rebels from the baby bra my mother used to buy me. Some time on my late teens, my boobs stopped growing. And at a munchkin height of 5 feet flat, my 34b is just right.

I guess all I'm saying is that I don't need an Albany breast enlargement partly because I'm happy with it, and primarily because I don't live in New York.

Now, to those girls who is not content and wants to get a boob job in whichever plastric surgery clinic she wishes to trust, my advice is to never go overboard. Looking like the three girls below...

is just plain scary.

sashayingpepper

The Hair, whether in overgrowth unkemptness or undergrowth pathetic state, has always been a source of insecurity to almost every male in the planet. It is second, next to worrying about the size of their nether region's appendage.

"I need a good hair dresser," my brother told me while he was phoning from London, "I mean, I only have three hairs left, and when I get back there, I would have wanted to at least impress my wife with my hunkiness."

"Chunkiness, you mean?" I said drily.

He ignored me , continuing, "I want to be able to make my hair more..."

"Full?" finishing the sentence for him.

"Yeah, full." He agreed, "maybe if I massage my hair more with aloe vera, the follicles might decide against dying. Uncle Butch swears by it."

"Did you ever see his hair improving? The least you can do is contact some London or New York hair transplants specialist because chances are, with all the males in our has been rubbing aloe vera on their scalp with zero results. " I explained, "Else, just shave off all of what's left, and then get used to it. Chances are, you'll just hafta in the next five years."

"You're mean."

"I know." I smiled.