I could hear the phone ringing from the bathroom. I have no psychic abilities and I wasn’t expecting a call, but I had absolutely no doubt who was calling. It was my husband. “Hey honey, it’s me,” I heard him say to my voicemail. “Can you give me a call?” “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” I yelled back, as though he could…
Every once in a while I get bitten by the redecorating bug and I feel compelled to refresh one of the rooms in the house. In the grand scheme of things, this is not as bad, as say, wanting to refresh husbands. Of course, it might actually be cheaper to get a new husband than a new family room. But…
“I’ll be right back,” said my husband as he headed for the door. “Where are you going?” I demanded. We were in the middle of moving some of our stuff out of storage and putting some other stuff back in. It was a relatively massive job and I was counting on my husband to do all the heavy lifting while…
“Hey Mom, I’m hungry, can we stop for something to eat?” inquired one of my offspring. “Sure,” I said, looking out the car window. “How ‘bout we go to that Dam Diner.” “TRACY!” yelled my husband. “What?” I replied, smirking. “That’s what it’s called: ‘The Dam Diner.’” I pointed out the window to a restaurant coming up on the right. It…
“I’ll be right back,” said my husband as he headed for the door. “Where are you going?” I demanded. We were in the middle of moving our summer stuff out of storage and putting our winter stuff back in. It was a relatively massive job and I was counting on my husband to do all the heavy lifting while I…
“Honey, have you seen my shoes?” asked my husband as he wandered around the living room, peering under furniture. “Which ones?” I responded. “My brown boots.” I touched my temple and closed my eyes. “Hmmm. I can see them. Yes, they are coming into focus. They are… under the kitchen table!” My eyes popped open and I smiled. “How do…
Contrary to popular belief, the three words a woman likes to hear most from her husband are not, “I love you.” They are, “You were right.” So, you can imagine my utter, sheer, uncontainable joy when I heard the news this week that there was finally proof of something I had been telling my husband for years: Toilet paper is…
My bra is trying to kill me. I know this for a fact because before I put the bra on, I was fine, But after I wore it for ten hours, I thought I was going to die. I’d heard about these renegade bras before in the news. Bras that suddenly, inexplicably stop caring. It’s like something out of a…
When it comes to cosmetics, I am pretty brand loyal. If I find something I like, I will usually stick with it until something drastic happens like they stop making it or they discover that it can make you cross-eyed, or turn your skin green, or make you grow facial hair… none of which is a particularly good look for me. Of course the worst thing is when a brand you love, a brand you have come to depend on every single day, a brand you have recommended to all your friends, does the unthinkable.
They change the formula.
This is what happened to my mascara.
As much as you can love a cosmetic, I LOVED my mascara. It was the perfect combination of lengthener and volumizer and left my somewhat skimpy lashes looking feathery and gorgeous. While skin perfection and weight management had always eluded me, I knew I had at least won the eyelash lottery with the help of this mascara.
But then the day came when I realized the tube was empty and I had to buy a new one. I knew the second I pulled out the brush that they had messed with it. The liquid was thinner, it went on lighter, and it failed to either lengthen or volumize my lashes.
Thinking it might be one, lone, bad mascara, I threw it out and bought another one. But the next one was exactly the same. I was beyond upset. The cosmetic company had broken the cardinal rule of beauty product protocol: They reformulated the product and made it worse. They had, in a sense, New Coked my mascara.
Back at the drug store, I stood in the cosmetic aisle at the drug store, wondering if there was any other mascara that could ever make me as happy as my old mascara had. As I perused the racks, my eyes suddenly came to rest on something I had never considered before.
There, in a plastic case, were the prettiest pair of eyelashes I had ever seen. They were, of course, false eyelashes. They looked just like my own eyelashes used to look back when I still cosmetically innocent and believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and my mascara manufacturer. I had never used false eyelashes before, but I thought they might be the answer to my mascara dilemma.
There, in a plastic case, were the prettiest pair of eyelashes I had ever seen. They were, of course, false eyelashes. They looked just like my own eyelashes used to look back when I still cosmetically innocent and believed in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and my mascara manufacturer.
I immediately bought them and raced home to try them on. While I’m sure they are pretty easy to get on once you have mastered the process, it’s definitely a challenge for a novice false-eyelasher. After struggling with them for twenty minutes, I finally got them in place. Although they looked right, they felt funny, and I wasn’t sure if I just wasn’t used to the feel of false eyelashes or if I had done something wrong. Still, I thought they looked pretty real and very glamorous.
“What do you think?” I asked my husband as I batted my long and lustrous new eyelashes at him.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asked.
“I’m showing you my new eyelashes!” I explained, batting them some more. He leaned closer and peered at my face.
“They look fake,” he declared.
“They are fake. But don’t they look good?”
“Why would you wear fake eyelashes?” he asked shaking his head. “It would be like if I wore a fake mustache.”
“Well, I think they look great!” I protested. Frustrated with his lack of eyelash appreciation, I decided to go run some errands and take my new false eyelashes out for a spin.
Not wanting to overwhelm too many people with the fabulousness of my new eyelashes, I decided to hit up the dry cleaners first. I stood at the counter waiting to get the attention of the store employee who was busy writing up another order.
“Hi,” she said, finally looking up from the order slip. “Can I help you?” She suddenly screamed and then, reached out, and slapped me across the face.
I grabbed my cheek in shock and stepped back as she came running around the counter and stomped on the floor.
“Yyyou hit me!” I stammered. “Why did you do that?”
“No! No! I wasn’t hitting you,” she explained breathlessly. “I was getting something off your face. You had a HUGE SPIDER on your face!” She pointed to the floor where the alleged spider had been summarily stomped and destroyed.
I looked down, and peered at the dead thing on the floor. Then I bent over and picked up what was left of what I had immediately determined to be one of my false eyelashes.
“It’s not a spider.” I said holding out the dead eyelashes in the palm of my hand for her to see. “It’s my eyelashes.”
She blinked in confusion. “Eyelashes?”
“Yes,” I said sadly. “False eyelashes.”
“Oh, wow. I’m really sorry,” she groaned, glancing down at my dead false eyelashes. “Now you just have eyelashes for one eye.”
“What are your going to do?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I guess I could use it as a mustache.”