Tag Archives: makeup

Choose Your Own Adventure

Today I am going to boggle your mind with not one, not two, not three but FOUR different posts you should read, none of which are actually on this blog. 

Go figure. 

First, I’ve been over on Your Tango the past couple of weeks talking about:

Why I Don’t Wear Makeup (GASP!)

11 Problems Only Girls With Short Hair Understand

21 Problems Only Skinny Girls Understand (Yes, we have issues.)

And finally, the hilarious Kate Hall interviewed me for her fabulous “Hall of Tweets” blog that profiles huge, big, influential hilarious tweeters, which is why it’s a mystery that she asked to profile me. But regardless of my confusion, she DID interview me and you can hop on over and read about how I talk to myself in 140 characters or less on a daily basis. 


Beyond the Bio: Interview with @AbbyHasIssues

So there you go. Choose your own adventure–hopefully all four of them–and I’ll see you back here on Friday. 

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I Crap Glamour

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I actually cared how to coordinate clothes or correctly apply fancy makeup. Maybe I would have more friends or wind constantly blowing through my perfectly colored hair like it shows in all those commercials.

But then I remember that I’m the girl who went out in public with a Velcro roller stuck on her head, has blinded herself with liquid makeup applied directly to her eyeball and designates “good” T-shirts/jeans/yoga pants for when she needs to feel classy.

Basically, I just crap glamour.

It started early, as growing up I wasn’t what you would call a “girly girl” at all. My best friends were boys, but seeing as girls were around us as well, I carefully balanced stuffing my leotard with foam balls and coating my eyelids with glitter to lead “Get in Shape Girl” sessions in the yard with digging in the mud with a stick and baiting a hook for fishing.


Although I did have a Marilyn moment or two early on.

I experimented with a variety of questionable “girly”-type things to try and fit in—a crimper, Electric Youth perfume, a Caboodle filled with plastic barrettes and scrunchies to match my colorful socks exposed under my stirrup pants and Jelly shoes—but once I got past the awkward years of 11 to 20, my interest started to fade even more.

Now if someone were to sweep me away and completely make me over, I probably wouldn’t object (as long as they didn’t abduct me near a meal time.)

However, I have no interest in learning how to do it myself—kind of like automotive repair or computer programming, but with more glitter and possibly more power tools.

I just don’t understand things like $25 mascara or dry shampoo. Isn’t spraying more crap in your hair instead of washing the other stuff out counterproductive? And I’m pretty sure if I went for a manicure, the tech would suggest amputation as the least laborious option.

Plus for me, it’s just not practical.

My real goal in life is not to always look fabulous, but rather to get through a meal without dropping food on my shirt or find the fabric softener sheet in my sleeve before someone else does. And I feel like high heels would clash with even my best yoga pants.

So for now, the paraffin hand treatment I get every time I spill the wax out of my Scentsy scented wax warmer and my vegetable steamer facial every night are good enough for me.

But if they make a Bump-It that promises to bump up my chest—not my hair—I  might just shell out the cash.

(Unmanicured fingers are crossed!)

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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.


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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Velcro Rollers, Eyelash Ass

The other day I posted:

“Just in case anyone wants to live vicariously (and glamorously) through me, I’ve been at work an hour and just noticed I left a Velcro roller in my hair.”


Confession—that’s not me.

On the bright side, I’m the first one in the office and by myself for at least an hour before anyone else comes in, so no one was witness to my beauty brilliance. On the dark side, I still felt the need to let everyone know what an ass I am.

But this isn’t the first time that I’ve done that, and it got me thinking about how I am a perpetual “Before” picture when it comes to day-to-day beauty.

If someone were to sweep me away and completely make me over, I wouldn’t object one perfectly separated eyelash. However, I have no interest in investing either the time or the money in learning how to do it myself—kind of like automotive repair or computer programming, but with more glitter and possibly more power tools.

So while I am (obsessively) clean, always smell (relatively) lovely, occasionally color my hair and get my eyebrows waxed, my general “beauty” routine consists of washing my hair, putting on a coat of foundation in the winter, mascara, a little eyeliner and chapstick.

That sounds simple enough, but there are even snags with those simple steps:

  • When I wash my hair, there have been times I’ve forgotten to rinse out the conditioner, as I was too distracted reading the back of the bottle in each of the foreign languages.
  • And while I start out with styling products and Velcro rollers in the morning, by the afternoon I’ve usually resigned myself to the fact that my hair would like to join my chest in remaining flat and lifeless. Bobby pins are inserted—in my hair, not my bra—and I move on.
  • I have directly applied foundation to my eyeball, resulting in a beige splotch and searing pain.
  • Using an eyelash curler is a daily thing, despite the fact that there have been times more times than I can count when I’ve pinched the skin near my eye with the damn thing and unleashed a string of profanity that scares my eyelashes straight again.
  • I have sneezed immediately after applying a coat of mascara and then forget that I sneezed immediately after applying a coat of mascara—more than once. It’s attractive.
  • We won’t even get into my clothes, but let’s just say that I do have my “good” T-shirts/jeans/yoga pants/tennis shoes when I need to be classy.

Hey, I go for comfort.

And it seems whenever I do try and make an effort, I wind up at work with a Velcro roller in my head, resentment over having to wear a real “big girl” bra (for social convention, not out of necessity) and chicken tracks under my eyes until I remember to look in the mirror.

Plus, my real goal in life is not to learn how to French manicure, but rather to get through a meal without dropping some morsel of food on my “good” T-shirt or finding the fabric softener sheet in my sleeve before someone else does.

But in an effort to make me feel better, a stunning friend of mine who actually works in the beauty industry shared her latest snafu. It seems she wore her fake (black) eyelashes to bed and woke up to find what she thought was a huge black spider on her leg, freaked out and started swatting at it with the ferocity of a home run hitter. 

In actuality, it was her fake eyelashes stuck to her ass.

That made me feel a little better, if only for the visual.

So here’s your chance to confess your beauty blunders—or those of a “friend”—in a safe and caring environment.

Was it toilet paper stuck to the shoe? A glob of food in your hair or teeth? Fake eyelashes stuck to your ass?

Remember we’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing with you.