MAKE UP GAMES FOR LITTLE GIRLS. MAKE UP GAMES


Make Up Games For Little Girls. Light Makeup Mirrors. Make Up Tips For Eyeshadow



Make Up Games For Little Girls





make up games for little girls






    little girls
  • Little Girls is a Canadian indie rock band formed in 2008 from Toronto, Ontario, Canada. The band emerged from Toronto's post-punk scene as a solo recording project of multi-instrumentalist Josh McIntyre.

  • (little girl) female child: a youthful female person; "the baby was a girl"; "the girls were just learning to ride a tricycle"

  • The Little Girls was a novelty band by the sisters Caron Maso (guitar, vocals) and Michele Maso (vocals) from San Fernando Valley in the early 1980s. They had two hits, "The Earthquake Song" and "How to Pick Up Girls".





    make up
  • The combination of qualities that form a person's temperament

  • constitute: form or compose; "This money is my only income"; "The stone wall was the backdrop for the performance"; "These constitute my entire belonging"; "The children made up the chorus"; "This sum represents my entire income for a year"; "These few men comprise his entire army"

  • Cosmetics such as lipstick or powder applied to the face, used to enhance or alter the appearance

  • constitution: the way in which someone or something is composed

  • The composition or constitution of something

  • makeup: an event that is substituted for a previously cancelled event; "he missed the test and had to take a makeup"; "the two teams played a makeup one week later"





    games
  • A form of play or sport, esp. a competitive one played according to rules and decided by skill, strength, or luck

  • (game) crippled: disabled in the feet or legs; "a crippled soldier"; "a game leg"

  • A single portion of play forming a scoring unit in a match, esp. in tennis

  • (game) bet on: place a bet on; "Which horse are you backing?"; "I'm betting on the new horse"

  • A complete episode or period of play, typically ending in a definite result

  • (game) a contest with rules to determine a winner; "you need four people to play this game"











At the Top Station




At the Top Station





When travelling there is barely a day when my camera and I don’t end up crouching at eye level with some local kids. In the places I have visited a personal camera is a novelty for most people. The rarity of such an object also makes an instant digital image of someone’s face a quite astounding thing to see, none more so than when some pale skinny guy with a weird accent rolls into your street and starts taking pictures.

People’s reaction in places like Georgia, Lebanon, India and particularly Syria was often one of the highlights of my day. The camera was a link between language and culture where the shooting of the shot and the display of the image washed away any repressed curiosity or suspicion. I remember spending a whole afternoon in Tripoli (Lebanon) surrounded by kids clearly unable to comprehend just what the skinny guys magic box was doing, but loving every minute of the experience regardless.

It is always the kids that I get the best reaction from. Theirs is a jubilant response untainted by any pride or etiquette. Adults may be interested, they may be delighted, but they will remain at a distance. Kids, well they clamber, jump and squeal for more no matter how many shots I take of them and no matter how much their parents chide and scold. Their enthusiasm is disarming, their desire to see more shots of them is delightful and the best of the images (the ones the kids don’t take themselves) are some of my favourite from my travels. You can see the outcomes of some of this work in one of my sets linked at the bottom of this ramble.

Now that got me thinking, why don’t I get this reaction over here? Why don’t I take shots like this in Scotland? I cast my mind back to when I was saving up to buy my current flat. During that time I stayed at my parent’s house in Paisley. Now Paisley is Scotland’s largest town. It has 95,000 people crammed into its various neighbourhoods and communities and is a part proud, part disgraced patchwork of industrial heritage, beautiful civic architecture and the planned sprawl of the suburbs Beyond friends, family and a few tired football pitches, I’ve never loved much of Paisley.

But I do love where I grew up. It was a haven for shy kids. A closed off estate surrounded by a seemingly endless band of woodland and centred by a vast tundra of a common patch of grass that was nightly and rightly claimed as the kids own. My memories of that patch are grass are still so vivid in my mind. From slotting the winning goal past a rolled up jumper as Roger Milla and Cameroon won the third World Cup of the day to being clothes-lined by prematurely tall girls during a game of British Bulldogs, it’s all there and it’s all crystal clear.

While residing near that space as an adult I used to walk across that grass to get home. When I did this, the new generation of kids would see me, greet me with cheers and drag me over to play whatever combination of WWF wrestling, football and soldiers was the flavour of the day. Many a summer night was dwindled away with me playing the role of Supreme Space Baddy or Ace Centre Forward, all the time clad in my, oft grass stained work clothes. The sad thing is, these games would only last for as long as it took for one of the parents to see me, and what they saw was a man! A real live grown man they didn’t know, who was lifting their kids up, spinning them around or running away with their ball: and they hated it.

Like spectres they would shuffle onto the grass and quietly drag their kids away, always glancing back to make sure I wasn’t following, wasn’t stalking their precious child all the way to their safe, protected home. To me it was equal part pathetic and understandable. They didn’t know my history in this place, didn’t know my intent, didn’t know that the simple games and the by-proxy time travel were the highlight of my week. They had read the headlines, knew of the army of paedophiles and strangers who lurked behind every bush, lamppost or turd. That skinny, sweating young man was fear incarnate to them. I think about those nights sometimes, I see those kids sometimes. They are teenagers now and I’m a strange flicker of something old, something forgotten to them. I think about those nights and I miss playing with those kids.

And then I’m in India. I’m walking along a mountain path surrounded by forest, tea plantations, clouds and hungry monkeys. The path is foggy, distance is limited to 25m and sound is muffled down to a stodgy mush of words. Out of that fog came this wee girl. She was stumbling along under a gargantuan sun brolly that threatened to topple her with every step. I watched her wander along towards me. She was clearly completely unaware of my presence, unaware of anything that wasn’t imagined I suspect.

Finally she sees me. Hazel is somewhere further back and it’s just me and her. Stand off at high noon on this mountain path. She says something vaguely in my direction. I couldn’t tell you which language, if any language she











survivor




survivor





Well, there she is! I know this isn't exactly the best "intro" photo, but there's a story that needs to be told before we dive into the basics. It's taken me a few days to piece it together, not because it's long (after all, the core of it took place in under 15 minutes) but because it's a mixture of unforgettable and unfortunate. And necessary for the lesson it taught.

Who she is exactly and how she came into my life will follow soon; for now, all you need to know is a name and a place.

It was a Friday night. Three weeks since I'd gotten my new addition, a little husky mutt I've come to call Wicca...

We were babysitting 5-12 midnight. This was the second, maybe third time I'd brought my new dog to the kids' house. There had been no real problems assimilating her into the pack; Bailey mostly ignored her and Zoey wasn't exactly thrilled but there was a wary sort of curiosity to her interaction with Wicca. On this day, Hike finally broke the ice. I watched from the window as he sped around, his little sister and his best friend in hot pursuit. The transition was complete.

Later that evening, before going up to put the three big boys to bed, I let Hike and Wick out into the backyard, keeping Zoey and Bailey in so they wouldn't start another wrestling-chasing-barking game while I was trying to get the kids to sleep. A few minutes later, I was still upstairs when I hear the door bell ring.

It was after 11 at this point; I figure the parents were getting home early and I'd locked them out. I go downstairs and see some random guy waiting out front. I almost don't open the door because, hello creepy, but Zoey is barking her big girl bark next to me so I figure she'd be enough to ward off trouble if it came to it. I poke my head out and the guy's next words are ominous. "I just saw a dog get hit by a car. It ran up your driveway..."

At this point, I'm thinking: two dogs inside, two dogs in the yard, everyone's accounted for. Must have attracted a stray. I tell the guy I'll check it out, thank him, and go around the back door. Hike greets me when I step out. I call for the little girl... She isn't there.

Most people know that feeling when the world suddenly spins a little too fast, your heart stops beating, and your blood runs cold... I think I walked to the driveway gate in slow motion. It couldn't be my dog out there. This kind of stuff doesn't happen to us.

But sure enough, in the headlights of the man who'd stopped to ring my doorbell, there was Wiki. Pacing, panting. Alive. Surely the guy had been mistaken. She wasn't hit. She was fine. I opened the gate and watched her run in. "Oh God, she literally just got hit. I hope she's okay..." I thanked the man again (and later wonder if he was the one who'd hit her and didn't want to admit it - not that I would've blamed him one bit) and started towards the house. Wicca was now laying by the door, Hike observing her from a distance. As I approached, she flopped onto her back and lifted a leg for a belly rub. She was okay.

I step closer and she looks up at me, the light from inside catches her face. Something's off but I don't realize it right away. Her snout is oddly swollen. Her nose is red. A big fat drop of blood splatters on the tile.

Pretty much a nightmare situation from here on forward. There I am, alone, middle of the night, 4 young kids asleep in the house, and a puppy that's been hit by a car. I go inside (walk, I tell myself don't run because I don't want to excite the dogs) to get my phone and call the parents, but as I'm heading back outside I see them pulling into the driveway. I calculate the closest all night animal hospital - I drive by it on a weekly basis - so I know I can get Wicca there within the hour. I grab a towel from the car and wrap her up, put her on the front seat because I don't want Hike prodding at her in the back. There's more blood oozing from her nose so I grab another towel and put it under her head, stupidly worried about staining the leather. After all, my mother would be pissed.

Next few hours at the e-vet, I was in some kind of weird dreamlike limbo. Amazingly, there's nothing broken, nothing sprained, nothing displaced. She's banged up, sure, but in one piece. No internal bleeding. She probably got nicked on the side and thrown to the pavement, resulting in some minor head trauma and road rash on the inside of her legs, but it sure beat being roadkill.

She could have been killed. It still hasn't really sunk in.

Over the summer, the boys had a tendency to leave one of the yard gates open, resulting in Hike and Zo busting out to wander the neighborhood in a series of undisclosed canine adventures. I never worried about them getting hit by a car because the "back neighborhood" was a relaxed, easy-going area full of children and dogs playing on the streets. The front lawn, on the contrary, borders one of the busier roads in the area. The do









make up games for little girls







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becca cosmetic

Author:becca cosmetic
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