Birthday Party Time Part 2 of who knows

Ok, so when we last left my wonderful adventures, I had scored some Sephora “product”, a latte, and was driving to the Thrift store for some unbridled shopping... when my phone rang. It was loving hubby, who suggested that I delay my thrift store whoring to come eat lunch with him and a coworker. Food? Sure thing, so I modified my route and met them at the ever wonderful, always friendly, tasty good lots of food for a reasonable price Red Parrot Asian Bistro in beautiful thrown up in a weekend Arundel Preserves (which use to be a forest but now its a forest of condominiums).


I had the VERY tasty stir fried beef and a green tea, very tasty and filling... almost too filling as after I ate I felt as though I could simply curl up on the floor and nap, but I had things to do.... so I got one of these to help boost my spirits.

Nodding in and out of sleep on 295 south, I ventured back to the thrift store.

Now, I just want to say that I am sensitive to the fact that some people actually rely on thrift stores to put clothes on their backs or else they’d walk around nude, so I didn’t go in carting a latte with a Sephora bag swinging from my wrist while I twittered my activities on my iPhone. I mean come on, I could have been mistaken for an AIG executive and beaten to death, so I left all of that in the car.


It must have been the tasty food, but once I got there I really wasn’t in the mood to dig through aisle upon aisle of clothes, so I did a quick once through and grabbed a few things: some shirts a nice light jacket thing, and a dress, all for less than $20 and decided that perhaps running home for a nap would be in order. Of course as I drove out of the parking lot I realized that I barely had any gas left, which meant stopped at a gas station... big sigh.

I don’t like any of the gas stations on “that side of town”, but it was either that or push the RAV home, so I stopped at a BP station... where apparently the pump didn’t speak the same language as my Amex and kept telling me to see the attendant. FINE, so glad we have all of this technology. I mean REALLY I’m so use to NOT having to speak to anyone when I get gas I barely know what to say to the guy once I get in there. “The pump told me to see you”, which on hindsight makes it sound like I held a conversation with it (well, I did curse at it so I guess that counts.) Guy behind bullet proof glass apologizes and tells me to try it again. I do, says “See Attendant” SONOFA... I just want GAS how hard is this?

Go in again with the WTF look, and he apologizes again and says he’ll just do it from the register. Fine, whatever, I mean I’m all out of breath from walking the 10 feet from pump to building and all, I don’t think I can take another round trip. “How much do you want to put in it?” Um... I want it filled up. “Yes, but how much does that cost?” Well, how the frick am I suppose to know that? This is a credit society, we don’t look at totals, we just charge and charge until someone rips our cards up or bails us out, so I don’t fricken know how much my gas tank takes or what the cost of gas is even!!!! “SEVEN DOLLARS!!!” I shrieked. He looked at me like that wasn’t going to be enough, and I refrained from screeching “well its gonna be enough to get me to a station where their shit works”, but he was being nice and I didn’t want to make him feel bad that his station sucked.

Got my 7 bucks worth of gas (FYI: half of a tank), and toodled over to Target for some face soap... because all I have is moisturizing soap and if I’m going to use a moisturizer, I can’t be throwing all sorts of moisture on my face or else I’d be able to grow mushrooms on my forehead.

After that, I did toodle home, but didn’t get a chance to nap because it was then time for the ritualistic friday mall crawl with hubby. We went, we latte’d, we walked, and I found this book.

I’m pretty sure its a children’s book about poop.

We came home, Loki helped with laundry, and then I pretty much went to bed.

And thus ends my exciting birthday.

BTW: I did try the Sephora stuff, and I really like it, and my face hasn’t sprouted mushrooms yet.

Birthday Party Time Part 1 of many

So yes, a few gazillion years ago I was born on the first day of spring... during a blizzard. That pretty much was a foretelling of my life right there I suppose. For years and years I was told that I was named after a soap opera character, because they felt I wouldn’t take it well to learn that I was actually named after my dad’s first dog... frankly it came as a huge relief, because who wants to be named after a soap opera character?

But I digress, yesterday it was my birthday and a regular day off, so what better way to spend it than a day of pampering and shopping. Well, sorta.

Thanks to the economy, and despite the pleas for people to go rack up more credit card debt to “stimulate” the economy, I’m on a budget (poor) so I had two objectives in mind for that day:

1.) go buy some tinted moisturizing sunblock face stuff that was recommended by Bossy
2.) Check out the thrift store
3.) get latte

I really didn’t need to list #3, as that is a daily essential vitamin in my diet (along with Vitamin E, which I’ve been pretty good about taking along with my Zyrtec and I haven’t grown a horn out of my head, although I think I could accessorize a horn really cool.

Soooo, off I go at 10am on only 2 cups of coffee to the mall about 18 miles away. If only people would have known my condition, they would have stayed off the interstate.

First stop (of course)




Armed with a venti latte and a clearer head, I walked through the mall, checked out the puppy mill store (they had a husky, bastards... see ya in the shelter in 6 months when their unassuming purchaser who had no clue about northern breeds realizes its not a “snow dog” and dumps it), and found myself in front of the Sephora store.

As anyone that knows me, my going into a Sephora store with the intent to purchase anything is akin to a sign of the apocalypse, since I don’t wear makeup, never had. As I mentioned above, Bossy told me to go get that amazing product, so I had to. Ok, not really, but as I get older, I appear to be getting more and more blotchy, as a redhead the sun does stupid things to my skin (like creates more freckles) and I had given up all hope long ago that if I had a whole bunch of freckles, they would eventually merge and make me look really tan. So, sun block, moisturizer, and tint... pretty much what I need I think.

I walk into the virtually empty store and was immediately attacked by a helpful sales associate or “color specialist”. I knew this would happen and before I was thrown into a chair and made into a Kabuki theater actor, I whipped out the print out of the amazing moisturizer and said “I want this”.

I thought being prepared with the actual product page would save me from questioning or a hard sales push, but I was wrong. We got to the “product” and she asked “How does your T zone feel?” Um, I just met you, you really aren’t my type, plus I’m married and how dare you ask me something that private in a virtually empty store... ok, I didn’t say that, I actually said “What’s a T zone?” Apparently that’s the face area on your forehead and down your nose. I had no clue. “Is your T zone dry or oily?” She said “oily” as if leprosy was more desirable than having an oily T zone and I immediately recoiled and stammered that my T zone was perfectly normal, even though I could probably lube a car with my face. I’m lying to complete strangers about my oily T zone, what have I become?

Then she asked “what is your skin type?” and named off a bunch of seasons and feelings. I’m thinking to myself at this point “um, you are the ”color specialist“ I’m sure you had to graduate from color school or something, why can’t you just look at me and pronounce me a specific season? ”I don’t know“ I sputtered. I truly felt that she just wanted to torture me. They should send the Guantanamo prisoners to Sephora, they’d crack in 10 minutes.

Apparently, after sizing me up, she pronounced me a ”sand“, which is better than a ”compost“ or perhaps even a ”bark“ or something, who knows, but she proceeded to take a little sponge and a little q-tip thing and squirted a miniscule bit of ”product“ on the sponge, dabbed the Q-tip on it and rub it on my face and officially pronounced me a ”sand“. WHOOT!

”Do you have any sponges?“ Once again with the personal stuff, no I had my tubes tied so there’s no need for... oh, you mean to apply the stuff to my face... um, I don’t have any. She then told me that I would need a brush. Um... ok, then get me a brush. I balked at the silicone something or other setting something and managed to flee the store with generally what I had planned on getting and using... except for the brush, which I’m still not sure about, but its a really cool brush and I could always use it to baste a turkey with or something.

Next stop, thrift store, me with my Sephora bag, a latte, and yes, a small cheek part of my skin concealed with the rest of my face still blotchy.

I’ll save that for tomorrow, as I hate really long blog posts.