Lashing Out
I don’t mean to brag, but I think I can confidently say that I have perfected the role of a perpetual “Before” picture when it comes to day-to-day beauty.
While I will occasionally splurge and risk life, limb and sanity to get my eyebrows waxed, more often than not my attempts at beauty wind up with me at work with a forgotten Velcro roller in my hair, resentment over having to wear a real “big girl” bra (for social convention, not out of necessity) and chicken tracks under my eyes from sneezing while applying mascara.
I just have no interest, and we’re past the point of no return.
But I do wear a little foundation—handy to cover up bruises, hypothetically speaking—and a coat of mascara, which is what brings me to my point today. I had to buy new mascara.
What. The. Hell. People.
I had a $2 coupon for Cover Girl, so I went to the store to find out how to be Easy, Breezy and Beautiful — which sounds a bit slutty, yet intriguing — and was bombarded with approximately 405 different options.
I could be a Lash Fanatic or engage in Lashperfection, Lashwrap, Lashblast Fusion, LashExact, Luxe, Mousse and an All-In-One professional option that I assume will also staple and collate any inner-office memos in a passive aggressive way.
I needed a coupon for liquor at that point — not something that promised Eye Brightening with an Elasta-Nylon formula.
So even though I didn’t have a coupon for Maybelline, I shifted my minimally mascara-ed gaze over to that section in a quest to answer the eternal question: “Maybe she’s born with it? Maybe it’s Maybelline?”
More like, “Maybe it’s a crap shoot?”
Here I was presented with 4,367 different options that specialized in curl, definition, length, long wearing, volume, washable, waterproof, Volum’Express, XXL curl, Lash Stiletto and Lash Discovery with promises that with a swipe of a (curved, flexible, stiff or extended) wand, I could have dramatically curled, extended, mega plush up to 85 or 300 percent visibly longer lashes amped up 3, 5, 7, 9, or 11 times the normal volume.
All without clumps.
THIS IS WHY OTHER COUNTRIES HATE US, PEOPLE!
My head of limp and lifeless hair was spinning.
While L’Oreal promised to “millionize” my lashes, that sounded like entirely too many. As it is, my meager eyelashes often end up in my eyes—way to do your job of keeping crap out of my eyes, eyelashes!—and having a million around would just complicate things. So even though the packaging was screaming, “Because you’re worth it!” I really didn’t think it was worth jabbing my fingers in my eyes to retrieve a million voluptuous lashes — or $9.
But that’s not all!
It also turns out that when mascara just isn’t enough—I know, how could it not be with all of these options?—one can also invest in eyelash extensions and prescription eyelash enhancers. In other words, Rogaine and Viagra for eyelashes.
I can only imagine the product development team at these companies had a three martini lunch when this particular idea was tossed out there on the table.
Let’s just file it under “things that don’t need to be things.”
Anyway, after weighing my options I defaulted to the same $5 mascara I’ve been buying for years—the basic Maybelline in the pink tube—answering the question that yes, those chicken tracks under my eyes are Maybelline.
Because, after all, I’m worth it.
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Tagged beauty, commercials, makeup, mascara, not a girly girl, shopping
Door of Doom
What do you see when you look at this picture?
Most people would probably say they see an average refrigerator, maybe some cat treats on top or the Ove Glove lovingly hung on the side. But I am not most people, and when I look at this picture I see two things:
1) An arctic abode to house my beloved eats and drinks
2) An evil ninja-like appliance of pain that’s plotting against me
Let me explain.
The other day I was preparing for some couchgating and enthusiastically threw open the door to the refrigerator to grab some hippie fare. However, in my enthusiasm, I neglected to realize I was enthusiastically throwing open the freezer door and slammed the damn thing into my head.
It was a direct hit.
A drive-by dooring, so to speak.
I was knocked to the floor—not because I lost consciousness as my head enthusiastically stopped the door’s momentum, but because I stumbled backward and tripped on the cat.
As I sat on the floor I noticed three things:
1) Several grains of uncooked rice remained under the cupboard ledge on the floor from when I spilled it—never sneeze while measuring it out–which leads me to believe I need to sit down with the dust buster and re-evaluate it’s job description.
2) The cat was not helpful in this situation a la Lassie in fetching me ice, but was instead alternating exasperated glances between the treat bags on top of the fridge and my stunned skinny ass on the floor.
Noted, my feline friend. Noted.
3) I suddenly saw two fridges in front of me, which initially excited me — two fridges full of goodies!— until I realized it was because of the pain.
I gingerly stood up, made my way to the mirror and found a dark bruise and two-inch lump on my forehead. If it had happened a week later right before Halloween, I would have been thrilled. Easy costume! But seeing as I still had a week to wait, I knew that I needed a story that wasn’t so lame.
I thought perhaps I could say I was saving a kitten stranded in a tree and bumped my head while bending over to perform CPR, but given my abusive relationship with gravity, I knew that nobody would buy it.
Considering everyone knows how the small woodland creatures in my yard show a blatant disrespect for my authority, I figured a wrestling match with a squirrel just might fly.
But I think I could take a squirrel, so I moved on to using a bear or a cougar. However, bears aren’t that common and I didn’t want people to think I meant “cougar” like a horny old woman, as that would completely change the context of this injury, among other things.
So I settled on a badger. If anyone asks, I was wresting a badger…to save a kitten from a horny old woman.
And when you think about it, my actions — or at least my delusions about my actions —were really quite heroic, no?
Anyway, once I settled on a story I decided I should put some ice on my throbbing head, only to realize the irony of the fact that the ice was in the freezer—the scene of the crime! But I thought of the kitten I could have saved and threw open the freezer door—slightly less enthusiastically this time—and numbed out the pain for a bit.
At least I think that’s what I did.
The details are fuzzy.
Damn badger.
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Tagged appliances, house, I'm a weirdo, injury
Holy Sheet
We all have certain chores that we don’t mind doing. Some people prefer washing dishes over vacuuming or taking out the trash over dusting the shelves. If you have more than one person at home, these tasks can be split up accordingly.
But when you live alone—or with a cat who still hasn’t pulled her own weight—all of these tasks fall to you. And aside from ironing, I have to say one thing I find extremely tedious is changing the sheets on my bed.
Let’s examine the process.
It starts with simply ripping off the covers and throwing the pillows and blankets in a heap on the floor with dramatic flair—and about 1/100th of the time it will take me to remake the bed.
It’s at this point I realize there’s no turning back and swallow a small lump of panic. With the old sheets in the basket and the new sheets still folded in a pile, I am now committed to following through with the process if I want to sleep on sheets ever again.
Ever again!
Exhausted by the thought, I take the sheets from the shelf and let them rest on the bed for a bit while I rest for a bit on my own.
I will usually get (intentionally) distracted by something more interesting like watching the squirrels and cursing Disney movies for leaving me so disillusioned about small woodland creatures and their willingness to help me with chores.
But I steel myself up and return to my task, plowing through the bottom sheet and two pillows and fighting with the corners of death.
You know what I’m talking about.
The only thing harder than fitting the elastic-ish corners of the bottom sheet across each of the four ends of the mattress without one popping off every time is actually folding the bottom sheet when it comes out of the dryer.
Tedious.
Enter a quick break to test out the sheets and pillows, at which point I stare at the ceiling and decide I should probably wipe off the ceiling fan at that exact minute.
About 20 minutes later I continue on with my journey of placing the top sheet on with equal amounts of sheet on either side of the bed.
But no matter how hard I try, I end up walking back multiple times to pull the sheet a little bit more on one side before tucking it under the mattress.
If it’s too short on one side, I end up pulling the whole thing out when I get into bed. If I pull it too far up the front, my feet will poke out of the bottom and there’s a good chance I’ll wake up with the excess sheet wrapped around my head and panic that the cat’s trying to smother me.
Yup, still single, people.
Anyway, once sheet side distribution is complete, I triumphantly throw on the blanket with the flair of a matador waving his flag. After ensuring equal blanket distribution—see sheet step above—the task is finally complete a mere 45 minutes or so later.
Holy sheet.
I’m exhausted just thinking about it, but at least now the bed will have sheets.
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