Yesterday, Riv and I left our men to debate the ways of the world and the extradordinariness of the donut while we embarked on a quick trip to the mall. On the car ride there, we plotted out our store stops to make the excursion as smooth and succinct as possible so we could get back before dad had given mark a mikvah. We planned to pick up some make up products at nordstrom and then peruse our happy place, anthropologie. Now, if i was oprah or maybe even a less popular talk show host like rikki lake, I would get sent lots of expensive scented candles, overly priced sundresses and shirts that made me look pregnant just for mentioning this store but because i'm just me (and hey, that ain't so bad either), i don't get shit.
Our first stop was the chanel makeup counter where i proceeded to open every lip gloss and use the wand to glob the colors on my mom's hand in an effort to find the shade which best suited her skin tone. None of them did but her hand sure was sticky. Next, we moved over to our most favorite makeup counter which i am about to desecrate and will therefor not reveal it's name because i still wear their makeup and i don't want anybody spitting in my mascara or something real shady like that (you know, in case the 3 people reading this are employed there). Anyways, as my mother is placing her laundry list of makeup needs to the saleswoman, a lady who looks like she sells sex for money comes over and says she works for the makeup counter and would i like to have my make up done? My first thought is, am i that ugly? and my next thought is no, i would absolutely not like my makeup done by you. "no, thank you, i'm fine" i say politely but my mom chimes in "Come on, it will be fun!!" "Nah, i don't need a makeover now." "DO IT!" the busty bleached blond in stripper heels and my mother say in unison and before i know it i'm sitting in the chair and a woman, who had her hair done somewhere in yonkers, is wielding a blush brush. Also, it looks like her face has been vacationing in miami while her neck and the rest of her body have been hibernating somewhere in the arctic. However, there is one comfort: her blue eyeshadow starts at her eyebrows, which are drawn on, and seems to cover the whole of her eyelid and even the sides of her face. This reminds me of the mid-eighties when i was a little girl and would play in my mom's make up bag and put baby blue eyeshadow on any surface area of my face, it was real cute. See? isn't that nostalgic and comforting? Also, did i mention she's got a tattoo of a mole? Not the animal that is sort of hedge hog like but a mole like a naturally occurring blemish that one is born with. Yes, it's above her lips and i imagine some man used a needle and ink to make it look like she is cindy crawford's sister. Well you didn't fool me lady. Regardless, i'm too nice to run screaming from her clutches so i watch as she dips many different brushes in many different powders and then applies it to my virgin skin. While she paints, she talks about her love of makeup. she tells me i'm a level 1: someone who wears the minimum makeup, just enough to get by but i know what she's really saying is: YOU LAZY AND YOU UGLY. She tells me she's a level 3 and i think, lady, you have got to be nothing less than a level 10 since the day you were born. She tells me how very pale i am, as if this is news to me. Just last week a good friend asked if i was wearing SPF on my face and had forgotten to rub it in. It was 35 degrees and windy in new york city. i told him no, i was not wearing sunscreen and reminded him how rare it is to have such fine porcelin skin but back to the issue at hand:
When she is done cakeing my face, she says she just wants to add a "light lip" to the natural look she has created. She finishes and swivels my chair so i can view myself in the mirror. Upon seeing my new look, i am forced to recite a line from the cult classic movie, Troop Beverly Hills starring ms. Shelley Long. As the girl scouts sit in a circle listening to shelley tell a horror story about a man who did her wrong, when she gets to the "punchline," she exclaims "HE PERMED ME!" ok, guess you had to be there. I didn't actually say anything though, she looked so very proud of her creation, i.e. me, so i kept my mouth shut. I looked like a little monster, i looked like a clown. And not a funny, happy clown but a sad, sad clown who had lost his way and had been on sabbatical from the circus, on a desert island with no sunscreen. She tells me i look beautifully sun-kissed and i think, i look sun-raped! She has outlined my lips in what looks like brown eyeliner and i think if i were in an unfriendly borough of ny, no one would bother me because i look like a gang member. My mom comes over and has a look on her face that says my child has just been eaten by wolves. i think, yes, i have, only worse because wolves don't talk so much or so loud with such a thick ny accent and they also don't wear as much perfume. I thank my new friend very much for her artistic vision as realized on my face and hop off of her chair. By now, i am not only suffering from clown-face but from low blood sugar too since i haven't eaten in 35 minutes. Though my mother knows better than to travel sans snack, she has dropped the ball this time.
At this point, i think: I am weak, i am cranky and most of all, i am really ugly. It was time to go home.
Our first stop was the chanel makeup counter where i proceeded to open every lip gloss and use the wand to glob the colors on my mom's hand in an effort to find the shade which best suited her skin tone. None of them did but her hand sure was sticky. Next, we moved over to our most favorite makeup counter which i am about to desecrate and will therefor not reveal it's name because i still wear their makeup and i don't want anybody spitting in my mascara or something real shady like that (you know, in case the 3 people reading this are employed there). Anyways, as my mother is placing her laundry list of makeup needs to the saleswoman, a lady who looks like she sells sex for money comes over and says she works for the makeup counter and would i like to have my make up done? My first thought is, am i that ugly? and my next thought is no, i would absolutely not like my makeup done by you. "no, thank you, i'm fine" i say politely but my mom chimes in "Come on, it will be fun!!" "Nah, i don't need a makeover now." "DO IT!" the busty bleached blond in stripper heels and my mother say in unison and before i know it i'm sitting in the chair and a woman, who had her hair done somewhere in yonkers, is wielding a blush brush. Also, it looks like her face has been vacationing in miami while her neck and the rest of her body have been hibernating somewhere in the arctic. However, there is one comfort: her blue eyeshadow starts at her eyebrows, which are drawn on, and seems to cover the whole of her eyelid and even the sides of her face. This reminds me of the mid-eighties when i was a little girl and would play in my mom's make up bag and put baby blue eyeshadow on any surface area of my face, it was real cute. See? isn't that nostalgic and comforting? Also, did i mention she's got a tattoo of a mole? Not the animal that is sort of hedge hog like but a mole like a naturally occurring blemish that one is born with. Yes, it's above her lips and i imagine some man used a needle and ink to make it look like she is cindy crawford's sister. Well you didn't fool me lady. Regardless, i'm too nice to run screaming from her clutches so i watch as she dips many different brushes in many different powders and then applies it to my virgin skin. While she paints, she talks about her love of makeup. she tells me i'm a level 1: someone who wears the minimum makeup, just enough to get by but i know what she's really saying is: YOU LAZY AND YOU UGLY. She tells me she's a level 3 and i think, lady, you have got to be nothing less than a level 10 since the day you were born. She tells me how very pale i am, as if this is news to me. Just last week a good friend asked if i was wearing SPF on my face and had forgotten to rub it in. It was 35 degrees and windy in new york city. i told him no, i was not wearing sunscreen and reminded him how rare it is to have such fine porcelin skin but back to the issue at hand:
When she is done cakeing my face, she says she just wants to add a "light lip" to the natural look she has created. She finishes and swivels my chair so i can view myself in the mirror. Upon seeing my new look, i am forced to recite a line from the cult classic movie, Troop Beverly Hills starring ms. Shelley Long. As the girl scouts sit in a circle listening to shelley tell a horror story about a man who did her wrong, when she gets to the "punchline," she exclaims "HE PERMED ME!" ok, guess you had to be there. I didn't actually say anything though, she looked so very proud of her creation, i.e. me, so i kept my mouth shut. I looked like a little monster, i looked like a clown. And not a funny, happy clown but a sad, sad clown who had lost his way and had been on sabbatical from the circus, on a desert island with no sunscreen. She tells me i look beautifully sun-kissed and i think, i look sun-raped! She has outlined my lips in what looks like brown eyeliner and i think if i were in an unfriendly borough of ny, no one would bother me because i look like a gang member. My mom comes over and has a look on her face that says my child has just been eaten by wolves. i think, yes, i have, only worse because wolves don't talk so much or so loud with such a thick ny accent and they also don't wear as much perfume. I thank my new friend very much for her artistic vision as realized on my face and hop off of her chair. By now, i am not only suffering from clown-face but from low blood sugar too since i haven't eaten in 35 minutes. Though my mother knows better than to travel sans snack, she has dropped the ball this time.
At this point, i think: I am weak, i am cranky and most of all, i am really ugly. It was time to go home.
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