When I was a kid, my birthday always disappointed me.

Don’t get me wrong, I had great birthdays as a kid; fun birthday parties, my favorite meal for dinner, super awesome birthday presents. No, I did okay when it came to birthdays. When I say that my birthday disappointed me, I mean the day that my birthday fell on (March 4th) always disappointed me.

See, I thought that since my birthday falls in March, a spring month, the day of my birthday should be spring-like. The weather should be warm, flowers should be blooming, the sky should be blue, the sun should be shining. Never  mind that on February 28th in southern Michigan there was usually a good 2-3′ of snow on the ground; on March 1st the weather would instantly click over to the “Spring” setting and the snow should start melting in the 60 degree weather. By the time my birthday came on the 4th, I should be able to have my birthday parties in the backyard, surrounded by a colorful garden. I should be able to dance around barefoot in the green grass while wearing a crown of flowers. It should be a perfect, sunny, bluebird day, because it was my birthday.

And I think that’s really why I so badly wanted a perfect spring birthday: because if Disney taught me anything, it’s that things are only truly happy and magical in springtime. Think about it. When Aurora takes her magical walk through the forest to collect berries and sing with her forest friends, she didn’t have to grab a coat or come back in because it turns out she’s going to need her galoshes. When Cinderella and the Prince take a romantic stroll through the palace gardens, her makeup isn’t running because it’s 103 degrees out and she’s sweating her nuts off under 53 layers of taffeta. Even when it does rain in a Disney movie, (which usually indicates that either someone has died or the villain is coming,) it’s that gentle, warm, romantic spring rain, instead of gray, cold, half-sleet rain that frequents mid-Michigan in early March.  I wanted that same magic for my birthday. Every March 4th I would wake up and look out my bedroom window at the woods next to the house, completely expecting to see the snow gone and soft green buds poking out of the branches. Instead, without fail, I saw the same motherfucking snow I’d been staring at for the last 5 months. And without fail, I would be disappointed, because it meant that my birthday wasn’t going to be as magical as I always hoped. I wanted to be a princess on my birthday.

Today is my birthday. I am 26 years old.

Fact: Princesses should not have to work on their birthday.

Twenty March 4ths later, I now understand that much like in Michigan, the March 4ths of upstate New York will never be sun-shiney and Disney-like. That just ain’t how shit works. I’m  also not exactly a Disney princess either, (unless I’m forgetting about a Disney princess that wore combat boots, belched, and liked to play Mario Kart while drunk off of Rum & Cokes,) so the crappy weather isn’t quite as inappropriate as I used to think.

Besides, there are other things that make my day magical. Super delicious dinner with Kyle at my favorite restaurant. Sweet, thoughtful, (and surprisingly generous) birthday cards from family. An avalanche of well-wishes from friends via Facebook. Oh, and did I mention the totally badass birthday gifts I’ve gotten so far? (Kyle says there’s more coming.) But so far:

Super awesome military-inspired ski jacket from in-laws and grandparent-in-laws.

And totally hot steampunk earrings from Kyle.

(Which, by the way, he bought off of Etsy after seeing them on my Pinterest board. +100 Husband Points for Kyle.)

Plus monies from Aunt-in-law and Grandma to be spent on something-awesome-to-be-named-later.

So even though there’s no robins landing on my shoulder with gifts of wildflowers or walking barefoot in the grass, I think there’s enough magic to be had today. It comes in knowing that for one day, I am reminded of how lucky I am to be loved by so many wonderful people. It comes in reflecting on all the unpredictable and wonderful places that 26 years of life have taken me. It comes in wondering in amazement at all the difficulties and challenges that 26 years of life have presented me with and that I have through persistence, skill, dumb luck, and the support of people who love me been able to tackle and overcome. It comes in reflecting on the places where I faltered or failed, and gleaning what lessons and experience I can from them. It comes in speculating where the life I can’t predict will possibly take me next. And that, ladies and gentlemen, makes me feel like a Disney princess, even if I am still unshowered and wearing flannel. (Or by the time this post publishes, at work lighting a jazz show.)

(Though a little damn sunshine wouldn’t hurt, either.)

Author’s note: This one is pretty much going to be for the ladies. Sorry dudes. (Unless you’re into that kind of thing. We don’t judge here.) If the intricacies of eyeliner doesn’t interest you, take the time you would have spent reading this blog and go google “Kari Byron FHM” instead. You’re welcome.

To say that I’m not very adventurous with my makeup is an understatement.

Actually, you know what, before we go any further, ladies, you go google “Kari Byron FHM,” too. I’m sorry, I don’t care who you are, that shit is hot.

I’ll wait.

Okay, moving on.

On the list of things I fear, risky makeup is pretty high up there. More than a whisper of eyeliner? Terrifying. Eyeshadow that isn’t some variation on brown, taupe, or nude? Makes me sweat. Lipstick? Whooooa, there Tiger, let’s reel it in before someone gets hurt!

But there’s one makeup trend that has me intrigued. So intrigued that I was willing to risk looking like a jackass in order to give this one a try. It’s the brightly colored eyeliner.

I’ve seen it all over Pinterest and it looks so fun and trendy! And easy! Like I don’t need a degree in cosmetology and and a minor in art history to apply it!

So I set out to try out the crazy eyeliner trend. There were successes, there were some failures, and after multiple trials, this eyeliner trick is officially my new favorite thing. You know why? Because it’s fun and it’s trendy, but also because it’s so. fucking. easy. Seriously, you guys, this is the fabulous lazy girl’s best friend! And since keeping this little piece of makeup magic to myself would make me a super dick, here’s my gift to you, lovely readers of the  monster blog:

Rocking Neon Eyeliner in 5 Easy Steps

1) Take a shot.

Let’s face it, the thought of lining your eyes in blue for the first time since the 80’s can be terrifying. Even a bright purple can stop a woman in her tracks and run for the nearest exit. I promise you, I’m not here to lead you astray, brightly colored eyeliner can totally be done with class and taste. But a little liquid courage doesn’t hurt.

2) Choose your weapon.

Don’t do what I did, which was to walk blindly through the Walmart makeup aisle until something brightly colored and eyeliner-shaped catches your eye, grab it without looking, and sneak it into your cart before your husband notices. It ends badly. Instead, take a look at what’s available and which variety you feel you would be most comfortable working with.

So far I’ve tried out three different eyeliners, an “eye definer” (one of those softer liners that screw up from the bottom,) and two liquid liners. My first attempt with color came from Rimmel London’s Exaggerate Waterproof Eye Definer in Purple Shock. (I don’t dick around with color, bitches.) This one was a nice way to ease into the trend. It goes on exactly like my regular eyeliner, nice and smooth but because it’s a little smudgy by nature it’s pretty forgiving if you don’t have the steadiest of hands. (If this is the case, feel free to reapply Step 1 as many times as needed.) And because it’s kinda smudgy, it makes for a softer look, which can feel a little safer for the novice neon liner-er.

But if you’ve got your big girl panties on and are feeling brave, you can skip straight to the ninja star of eyeliner: liquid eyeliner. Mine came in the form of Hard Candy’s Stroke of Gorgeous Felt Tip Liner in Storm (purple) and Nautical (teal.) This shit is not to be trifled with; it’s bright, strong, and unforgiving. There’s no delicate little smudge with this shit; your balls will fly instantly to the wall. But lest I scare you off completely, know that the felt tip makes for super easy application, and the pop of color is undeniable.

3) Choose  your level of difficulty.

It’s time to decide how you plan to brandish your weapon. My current favorite application is simply to line the top lid with a single color over a nude lid.

That’s it. Done. Walk away and pour a glass of wine to celebrate being awesome. The bright colors makes the green in my hazel eyes pop out of my skull and it’s faster than my usual morning eye shadow routine. And despite that bitch in your head that tells that you look like a clown, I promise, it’s really not as intense as it feels. Don’t believe me? I wore neon purple eyeliner for three days straight before my husband noticed that I’d done anything different.

Level 2 is adding multiple colors on both top and bottom. One color, two, layer them, bottom and top, whatever floats your boat and finds your lost remote. Again, keep the shadow nude and the lips chill and you can rock any combination you like.

And if you’re feeling super fucking kick-ass bad-ass awesome, rock it with a smokey eye, (which I pretend I know how to apply.)

It makes the color of your eye pop out from the smokiness, and it also helps keep you from looking like a raccoon or worse, a Snooki. Because nobody wants that.

4) Apply with a steady hand.

You can do this. You are strong and you are sexy and you are NOT too old for brightly colored eyeliner. No, you’re not! Take a deep breath, make that weird open-mouth face that every woman everywhere does when applying eye makeup, and do it. What’s the worst that happens, you have to take it off? Tragedy.

5) Punch your man in the kidneys for telling you that the 80’s called and they want their makeup back.

You did it! Now it’s time to rock that shit! Unfortunately for you, if you are attached to a man (husband, boyfriend, coworker, etc) he will be a jackass and make some joke indicating that your eyeliner is reminiscent of the 80’s. He will do this because he is afraid of change. If you have the strength and courage to rock blue eyeliner, who knows what other changes are in store? This could lead to horrible things like a sudden interest in the state of his back hair or an insistence that he quit cutting his toenails in bed! His world as he knows it could change, and this just can’t happen! No, he has to protect his way of being, so he is going to make fun of your makeup. Remind him that you are still the boss and punch him in the kidneys. Problem solved.

And that’s it! Instant rock star!

Now get out there and give traditional eyeliner the finger.

Beer is good.

Beer at the end of a long day is better.

Beer at the end of a long day of skiing is the most beautiful fucking thing in the whole fucking world.

The fancy term for drinking after skiing is “après-ski,” and apparently, it’s a thing. Like, this isn’t just something Kyle and I made up to justify our winter alcoholism, it’s something that other skiers all over the world participate in. As I understand it, après-ski is a phrase that means that after we ski, we go to the bar. It’s a beautiful tradition, really. Apparently, après-ski is a big thing in Europe, with clubs and bars catering to skiers long into the night. Our experience at our home mountain has been that it’s much more of a casual thing, with a smattering of skiers congregating at the bar in the lodge.

On the outset, après-ski at Gore does not look all that exciting. For one, very little about skiing is as romantic as movies and tv have made them out to be. Sure, the views are exquisite and the rush of flying down the mountain exhilarating, but that’s about it. That luxurious lodge with the winged-back chairs in front of the fire? Replace that with a cafeteria/locker room hybrid that smells of wet dog. Oh, and the adorable little snow bunny with the perfectly styled hair, sun-kissed face, and matching fur-lined leggings, sweater, and boots combo? Doesn’t exist. (Well, she might but it’s irrelevant because everyone hates her for being such a fucking poser.) If you set foot on the mountain today your face is likely bright red except for the white raccoon mask in the shape of your goggles. Your hair, which has spent all day under various layers of cap, hood, and helmet, looks like hell. And there’s a really good chance that you’re still wearing your ski pants with your athletic shirt. If you don’t look like shit then you didn’t ski, and we all hate you.

Even the Tannery Pub at Gore is…well, I won’t say it’s the biggest hole I’ve been in this week, but it’s not exactly the swanky joint one might imagine. Despite the wall of windows letting in the snow-reflected sunlight, the bar appears rather dark when you step inside from the main lodge. The green carpeting is worn, and the matching bar seats have played host to more than a few soggy asses in their time. The main decor, aside from the various beer paraphernalia lining the walls and ceiling, is a row of deer heads against the front wall. Everyone at the bar is tired and wind-chapped and smells like wet clown ass. Don’t get me wrong, the bartender’s super nice and the place is clean, but it does lack a certain sophistication that one might expect from a ski lodge bar. I know it was very much different from the one in my imagination.

But it's still a fantastic fucking bar.

So why, then, would I trade every other form of alcohol on this planet for an après-ski beer? Because après-ski beer is fucking magical.

It’s a combination of circumstances, really. For one, I’m that special kind of exhausted that only comes after an entire day of outdoor physical activity. It always reminds me of how I used to feel after spending a summer day playing in my best friend’s swimming pool as a kid; so completely and infinitely exhausted physically that I felt as if my body was still floating in water. Spending the day on the ski slopes, we want to spend every available second in the snow, which means that we only stop once for a quick lunch. By the end of the day, we’re exhausted,  ravenous, and thirsty as hell. Which is why that first, perfect sip of Shock Top (for Shock Top is the perfect après-ski beer) is the most fucking delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. It is liquid sunshine for my weary soul. They say that hunger is the best seasoning, and it’s the same principle, really. Nothing tastes better than that first sip of beer.

But there’s more to après-ski beer’s power than just it’s exquisite, refreshing taste. That beer does something to us. It makes us warm and fuzzy and happy after just a single beer. A second one has me singing “I’m Henery the Eighth, I Am” in the parking lot. I suppose there’s a scientific explanation to it: alcohol hitting our exhausted, dehydrated brains via blood that’s pumping extra fast probably makes for a quicker buzz. But I prefer not to think of it that way. (It’s more depressing that way.) No, I like to think that it’s the flush feeling that accompanies physical outdoor activity with the pride of the day’s accomplishments, combined with the comradery of bonding with fellow skiers over the hobby that we share that makes for the feeling that I’ve been wrapped in a cozy blanket of love and happiness. (And maybe a little bit of alcohol.)

Après-ski truly is a beautiful thing. But it’s one of those elusive magics that can’t be bought or faked. You can’t just buy yourself a pair of fur-lined boots and go to the bar in the lodge and expect to experience the magic. No, you have to spend the day flying down a mountain strapped to two sticks and thinking to yourself, “This is an asinine fucking sport, why the hell did I think this was a good idea?” You have to do battle with the mountain and the snow and the ice and your fear and come out dinged but whole. You have to find yourself suddenly on your ass, struggling not to slide the rest of the way down the hill while trying to maintain the tiniest shred of dignity. You have to finish out the day tired to your very bones, your legs heavy and your socks damp. Only then will you taste the sweet elixir that is après-ski beer.

Fucking magic.