When I think that Stacey and I considered doing a blog called “365 days without makeup!” I cringe. It actually makes me feel physically ill. Not that I cake it on like a Miss America contestant everyday, but still, nary a day goes by where I’m not wearing at least five products on my face (blush, lipstick, mascara, eye shadow and of course concealer).
Sometimes it’s even more than that. When I went to the Grammys, I counted 17 different substances on my face. And I had a rather good time shoving it all on there. But the thing I love the most about makeup is being able to paint away the flaws. Had a very small bump on your face that you decided to pinch until it became a volcano of grossness? Just shove some coverup on it and it’s as good as gone! Unsightly tattoo got you down? Slap on some liquid skin and bare it all.
My concealer of choice is by MAC and it is like miracle paint. This one winter a few years back, I had what I like to call a flesh eating rash. I used to put it in my introductions. Hello my name is Karin and I have a flesh eating rash on my face. My former intern Ashley can attest to this, as those were the first words I ever said to her. Turns out this rash was really just a case of insanely bad dry skin, but still, it was gross. That’s where the MAC concealer came in. I just smoothed that mush on there and the rash vanished!
Confession: wearing makeup is one of my favorite things about being female. When I think that men just have to wear their zits for the world to see, it makes me want to cry. That sounds really really shallow, but let’s just call it empathy. Lucky for me, I have the right chromosomes and the right concealer!
These are really the only men who get away with wearing makeup, so clearly if I was male I would be a WWF fighter.
Last night, to cap off a crazy day with my little man, Ollie went tearing off with my phone and pitched it down the stairs as if he were throwing a hand grenade. It was totaled. The phone was so bad that when I took it in to the Apple store, Billy the sales clerk asked me if I ran it over with my car.
Even though I wasn’t happy to be forking over all that money to get a new one, I was pleasantly surprised at how painless the whole experience was. Last summer, when Ollie chucked my Blackberry into the pool, I swear I spent three hours with the Sprint clerks and walked out with a cell the size of Rhode Island. And I still paid them 200 bucks.
So today’s experience with the Converse sneaker-wearing, punky 22-year-old that swapped my broken phone was a real treat. An expensive one, but at least not tortuous as I was expecting. I didn’t have to complain to a manager, threaten to bitch to all my friends and family, or even wish death on anyone in the store to get a new phone. I just wasn’t expecting that. Yay.
Oh and by the way, Grey and I have finally learned our lesson with Captain Destruction and our phones. We’ve finally added them to our homeowners’ insurance policy.
This is exactly what my phone looked like. I should have taken a picture, but I actually cut myself on the smashed glass so I just put it in a ziplock bag so I could take it to Apple.
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