Cheap Thrills

So for someone who doesn't have a lot of cash, I sure have expensive tastes. Luckily, make-up is the only place where I indulge these exorbitant tastes. In fact, I never miss an opportunity to indulge them. And I justify every purchase like a champ...I once told my husband that DiorShow mascara cures cancer, AIDS and the common cold, and the only reason he hadn't had cancer/AIDS/recent colds is because I wear it. And that's not an out and out lie...in my eyes DiorShow does cure many of the world's wrongs, and if everyone in the world wore DiorShow, life would be much more manageable. I feel the same way about most of the things that Benefit makes and J.Crew featherweight merino v-neck sweaters (note: I just got a divine purple one. I put it on and feel like the totally awesome love child of Prince and J. Peterman--mostly because he's the only person I can think of who I feel would love merino wool as much as me).

That said, it should come as no surprise that I don't dabble that much in drugstore make-up. I will pick up a lipgloss now and again because I chronically lose lipglosses, but I hardly ever buy anything else. This is not necessarily because I'm a horrible, materialistic label whore of a person. Growing up, I had very, very pale skin, and just couldn't find foundation in cheap brands. Or, rather, I guess I could, but they all made me look like an Oompah Loompah. So, because she did not want to live with someone who regularly swims in chocolate rivers, my mother would take me on a monthly pilgrimage to the Prescriptives counter to buy my foundation. And the Clinique counter. And then the Lancome. What can I say? We both love make-up. I have very fond memories of visiting the Kingsport mall Proffitts with nothing but an empty afternoon spreading before us, getting free make-overs from the bored salesladies, and indulging in moisturizers and this and that. It was a treat. At age 13, I remember thinking that real rebellion was more about Maybelline Ultraliner and Great Lash Mascara than my pot smoking, Nirvana worshipping 18 year old boyfriend (a fact that I'm sure my mother sorely disagreed with).

So imagine my surprise that I have revisited the Maybelline counter, and have had some pretty damn fine results. It has actually happened on three seperate occasions, thus you're getting three product reviews tonight (rock on!). Our first product.....

Maybelline Superstay Foundation--Alright my little pelmenis, let it be said that I have a hard time with foundation. And I'm also the kiss of death when it comes to one that I like--I decide that I love it, can't live without it, and then two weeks later it is discontinued. The funny thing about this one is, I don't know quite why I bought it. I don't even really remember buying it. I think I got it at Target...maybe I was drunk? Just kidding--I don't get drunk very often (despite the rather authoritative voice I used in the last post...). Whatever. I bought this stuff with a near full thing of BareMinerals at home, as well as a nearly 1/4 full bottle of MAC Mineralsomethingorother Liquid Foundation. So I didn't need foundation. But for whatever reason, I bought this. And it is actually nice. Really nice. First off, it matches my skin tone, which is not the miraculous happening it used to be--my skin has wisened with age and is a bit darker since I moved to CA and determined that books don't necessarily have to be read in a dark room whilst listening to Nirvana's Unplugged in New York and sobbing. And it lasts. That Superstay thing? Not a marketing ploy. This stuff does last. Perhaps it's the attached primer like substance? Perhaps its the fact that its probably made of carcinogens and the powder of ground up horse bones (I'm a real make-up elitist, aren't I)? Whatever reason, this stuff is damn fine. And it costs something like $8 or so. A good deal.

An even better deal? This little pot of blush I bought off the clearance end cap at Long's for about $2.49. Maybelline Dream Mousse Blush is a cute little cream blush that comes in standard blush colors and provides an airy touch to your makeup. Of course, you can't find the color I bought anymore--it's strawberry something if you want to rebel and look for it anyway--because it is discontinued (thus my rock bottom price). The thing is though, this is good blush. It provides a sheer wash of color that is very translucent, and "like your cheeks, only better." So it's probably good even in a non-discontinued color (and not a whole ton more expensive). Just make sure that you're only using a bit. I'm betting this stuff could take you from zero to Baby Jane in 3.2 seconds flat. Not that I've tried. But as long as you're careful, try it out. Just steer clear of this foundation (the Dream Mousse kind). My mom bought some when she was hungry once (it's called a mousse, you see, and we're big French dessert lovers, my mom and I) and it made her look like a drag queen. A cheap one. With a make-up line. Yugh.

Finally, we come to my newest (ok, probably not newest...I'd be embarassed to admit how many lipglosses I've bought since I bought this one) lipgloss purchase....Maybelline Shine Seduction Something or Other. I actually bought this when my mom was in town and I was at Long's getting medication for my kidney infection. TMI? Maybe. Anyway, I saw it and thought it looked like the poorer girl's version of Revlon LipGlide, a cheap thrill that I also have in my arsenal. And I bought it. In the color Pink Whisper. And here's the cool thing...it totally eradicates the one thing I dislike about Revlon Lipglide--the little white fuzzy thing at the top that the lip stuff shoots out of. You know that thing? I hate it. Why? Because when you buy it, it's all pure and white and cute, and then the lipgloss comes squirting out of the little holes in the top, and it's such a good junxtaposition between the lipgloss and the white...and then you smush it on your lips, and it is never white again. Maybelline Shine Seduction takes that problem away because your lipgloss comes shooting out of a clear plastic applicator. And that's not all...I would consider this a light lipgloss in that it is not sticky or heavy, and feels pretty natural on the lips. And the color is pretty. Pink Whisper is a "like your lips only prettier" shade that is just a bit shiny, not overwhelmingly I-just-put-on-lipgloss obvious. I like it. My only complaint is that for some reason, the smell reminds me of this anti-bug oil that my grandmother used to put on me when it was summer and we went to visit my aunt at Boone Lake. Not a good smell. I mean, it's not blatantly obvious, and it could just be me. In fact, it is most likely just me, because this afternoon when I got home from work, my lips still full of Maybelline (and probably botulism), my husband gave me a big kiss, and then commented that my lips tasted nice. Which is totally unlike him. You know how much I love lipgloss? Yeah, Matt hates it just about the same amount. Which makes for an interesting marriage, let me tell you.

So that's that. Maybelline products are good. They are not made out of horse hooves and infectious disease. You should buy some. More product reviews later, of more expensive things that make me feel like a douche for owning them.

How to Cure a Hangover in ___ Easy Steps

So this morning I am a bit hungover, which is neither fashionable nor sexy, unless of course you are Lindsey Lohan, and then it's just fine. Don't change, Lindsey! We love your nasty coke-addled ways! Anyway, I have a bit of a hangover, which is totally my fault. I am a very, very stupid drinker, but while I am doing it, I think I'm being very smart/responsible. Take last night for instance. I went to my friend Lisa's party (more on that later), and I drank her delicious white wine sangria and ate myself into a rather Bacchian revelry. However, knowing that I had to drive home, and I was in my husband's car, and thus should not abandon it beside the Oakland street where I had parked it in order to take a cab, I stopped my drinking at a responsible time, opting to stuff my face with chocolate cake and cold carne asada instead. I made it home ok, which was a minor miracle, and then proceeded to be an idiot. See, when I got home, I was sneezing because of a mixture of smoke and cat hair inhalation, so I had to take a Claritin, and sometimes Claritin makes me giddy, so I decided to wash it down with beer. Lots of beer. So I basically stayed up, watching Hogan Knows Best and drinking by myself, until I just passed out/fell asleep. If that doesn't sound like a premise for a bad episode of Intervention, I don't know what does. So anyway, all things aside, I'm feeling gross today.

Or rather, I was feeling gross until I enacted my awesome hangover cure that I am going to write about here, and that will almost certainly make me a millionaire before nightfall! Below are the steps I used to make myself feel like a functioning member of society.

1. If you are hungover, endeavor to get up before everyone else in your family so that you can prepare yourself and look sorta alive before they get up. It's for the children, you see. This is relatively easy for me, as Matt and I are raising a couple of vampires whose skin sizzles if they manage to get out of bed before 10:30. My son, Sam, is especially prone to this. If you get up before everyone else does, you have the house to yourself for a little while, and you can operate with the blessed silence that so eludes a mother of two. Plus, the first thing you hear in the morning doesn't have to be "Why does Mommy smell like feet?" and the first thing you smell doesn't have to be urine soaked pajama cotton.

2. Get yourself to the bathroom. You stink, and your hair looks like shit. Congratulations. You now know what Kevin Federline woke up to for two years. Don't you think he should get a bit more money for his time and suffering? Run a bath, and put in two capfuls of Boots Mediterranean Bergamot Orange & Olive Bath Cream (I thought this would be a great spot for a link or a picture, but Target doesn't sell this online. It's now time for me to write my Congressman about this injustice). This stuff is awesome. First off, it smells really nice, but in a fresh, herby way, not a way that is going to make you revisit the mounds of carne asada you had the night before. It also makes bubbles. Bubbles make you clean. Even if your entire body is covered in cocaine and feces, and you look like a teenage prostitute from an old episode of Law and Order, this will make you clean. You will emerge smelling fresh, and this uplifts your mood. So instead of wishing that the entire Hogan family would be wiped out in a catastrophic, Miami bound tsunami, you will only consider them mildly annoying. See how that works?

3. Prepare two important items: a cold, wet wash cloth for your head, and a stack of magazines. The wash cloth helps with the ensuing headache, plus, if you're like me and run your bath water at near boiling temperatures, it will cool you down. For magazines, I like Real Simple because it is wholesome and the pictures are pretty. It kind of eases me back into my nice, debauchery free life. However, if you're still feeling a bit dirty, you have to have Cosmo. And you know you have an old copy somewhere. Everyone does.

4. Get in the tub, and soak until you get pruney. Watch the nastiness go down the drain. Stay where you are. If worse comes to worst and you have to puke, you're closer to the toilet in the bath than you are anywhere else.

5. Get out and dry off. Coat yourself in some kind of body butter. Again, this is just about bringing yourself back to life. Try to pick one that is the opposite of whatever you drank the night before. For example, since I drank about half of Lisa's pitcher of white wine sangria, a fruity, light beverage, I coated myself in The Body Shop's Coconut Body Butter, a rich, softening cream. This distanced me from my night-time activities, and made me smell good.

6. Put on something comfortable and wholesome looking. You'll feel better if no one is asking you about the night before. Put that out of their minds. I am wearing yoga pants with a white lace trimmed Banana Republic t-shirt. It's so sweet! I could be Little Bo Peep who lost her sheep while drinking with the boy shepherds!

Ok, that's all I can think of, and that's all I've actually done today. I still feel a bit crappy, but it could be worse. I could look like Linda Hogan. No matter how drunk I am, that woman just gets uglier and uglier.

And if you were at the party last night and managed to make it here after Lisa drunkenly advised everyone to go to "Morgan's blog called Cult of the Black Hole," congratulations. You're obviously very dedicated to reading crap. Also, you have too much time on your hands. Want to come over here and clean my living room? It's nasty, and I've got some Guitar Hero to deal with.

Finally, thanks to Allie at My Wardrobe Today (if that link doesn't work, just try to overlook it. I'm hungover. Don't judge.) who linked me to her wonderful site. I get a ton of inspiration from Allie, so to be linked there is a huge honor. When I read her comment this morning, I seriously got all choked up. Again, I'm hungover. Don't judge.

A Product Review a Day Keeps the Ugliness Away

If you only knew how bad I have been lately, you would probably ask me to seek professional help. I have bought a PILE of make-up lately. A PILE. I'm not really sure why--I'm going to blame it on the marketing folks who shove "Back to School Shopping" down our throats--but for some reason, I have just wanted new make-up lately. So I've gotten it. A lot of it. That means that in order to justify my purchases (journalistic integrity! a desire to inform the uninformed!), I'm going to be on here a lot talking about the things I've bought. So expect it, my little mini quiches! Nothing but the best for my 3.5 readers!

Today I'm talking about "That Gal" Brightening Face Primer, which was actually the first thing I bought a couple of weeks ago. I bought That Gal after my mom came out to visit, and showed me how awesome it is. She had bought some, and found that it made her "mature" skin (her word, not mine--when I think mature skin, I think of skin that is now allowed to watch NC-17 movies) look better both while wearing make-up and not wearing it. When I first tried hers, I wasn't sure that I thought it was that great, but she kept commenting me on my skin, so I assumed it must look nice. But I think they put meth in this stuff or something, because it is rather addictive (and it made my teeth fall out!--just kidding). After trying it that one day, I took my time layering it on the next, and notice that even without a veil of Bare Minerals, my skin looked nice. Kind of bright, and well, young. I decided to go without make-up that day, and while I ordinarily go next to nowhere without make-up, I looked nice that day. So I ordered my own tube.

Now, ordering from Benefit is absolutely awesome. First off, their packaging is so cute and cheeky that I love leaving the products out on my vanity for all to admire (and by "all", I mean "Matt"). Their website is just that cute. Plus, when you sign up for their email alerts, you get all of these cute emails that start of with a greeting of "Hello Gorgeous!" or something equally as cute. Now, I know I'm gullible and totally taken with this stuff, but you try to tell me that getting an email with "Hello Gorgeous!" written on the top on a Monday morning when you're dealing with wealthy, overindulged parents and their catatonic offspring is not a little awesome/uplifting. Finally, when Benefit gives promotions, they give PROMOTIONS. This month in Lucky (yes, I read Lucky. Shut up.), there was a coupon for them and if you ordered anything, you got a free Bluff Dust (review pending). Full size. Free. I got a bottle of High Beam this way, so I was on this crap. I ordered my That Gal, and prepared for gorgeousness.

And, I can't complain. It does give your skin a nice, youthful glow, and despite the fact that the stuff is pink (like Calamine lotion) it does not make your face look red or gross or anything. I have been wearing it sans make-up, as it has been hot here, and I can't imagine putting on another layer of anything, even Bare Minerals, but when I have worn it with make-up, I've noticed that it does keep your make-up around longer.

My only complaint is the way it is packaged. It's in this twist-up tube, like some sort of cosmetic push up. You roll the bottom wheel, and a little bit of lotion pops up at the top. You wipe it off the top, and then slather it on. That's all fine, but being the dumb ass that I am, I totally roll it the wrong way everytime. And then it goes down even farther in the tube, which means I have to roll it the right way for a hella long time to get the product back up. That's kind of blow-y.

But all in all, this stuff rocks. I actually like it better than Smashbox Primer, which admittedly, I've only used 4-5 times (when I've gotten it as a free sample from Sephora). This stuff is good, even without make-up, and I never noticed that with the Smashbox (which again, may relate to my not using it that much). I'm also very partial to Benefit cosmetics, so that probably plays into it too.

Ok, this is the first of many, so prepare yourself. It's a Cosmetics-apalooza at the Cult!

I'm Half the Fashionista I Used to Be

Today I did something that I thought I would never do. I did something that makes me a hypocrite in the worst way, something that makes me question my devotion to everything I hold dear to me, something that I might never get over.

Today, I wore a dress over a pair of pants.

That is not me, by the way. That is a picture of some starlet that I found over at Go Fug Yourself.

Up until today, I felt the same away as the Fug Girls about wearing dresses over pants. I thought it was at best stupid and at worst unhinged. But then Allie at My Wardrobe Today (I am trying to link that, but the links are being weird--it's making my whole paragraph blue. It's my technical stupidity, I'm sure. So if the link doesn't work...sorry.) wore a dress over jeans while on vacation and it also looked a lot cuter than what we see above, so this morning when I couldn't find anything to match the new headband I got on the clearance rack at Target last night, I went for my green shift. The thing is, I had four students today, and if I wear the shift by itself, I have to wear heels. I knew my legs could not take both the students and the heels all day. I also knew that I had a kind of sheltered, pervy kid today, and a shorter dress is probably more of a "Don't threaten me with a good time" look rather than a look that says, "If the subject is plural, the verb had to be plural too!". So I put on my Gap Curvy Bootcuts, some big ole gold hoops, a bunch of bangles and my brown stacked flops from J.Crew. I checked the mirror. Like I said, the dress is kind of short--if I'm not careful and am not wearing the jeans you can be my gynecologist if you so desire. It kind of looked worldly, especially with my brown and ivory zebra print headband. I could be a hip globetrotting writer...or a standardized test tutor. I smacked on some lipgloss and headed out the door.

The day went well. No one commented, although what can you expect from a group who thinks the white Chuck Taylors count as dress shoes? Then I got home from my last lesson, came home and stretched out on my bed, and gazed at the husband. This is our conversation, as verbatim as I can remember it:

Matt: What are you wearing? Is that a dress over pants?

Me: Yeah, well....it's a short dress. Over pants.

Matt: I thought you hate that.

Me: Well, I do, I guess (pretend to be interested in American Justice).

Matt: Then why are you wearing it? It looks kind of weird.

Me: What do you mean "weird"?

Matt: You know that girl we knew who lived in the French house and smoked clove cigarettes? That girl who used to write weird things on her boobs? The one that wore the fur boots and said the word "existential" a lot. You look like her.

Me: (sigh, evil look, the sound of sudden acquisition of horrible headache for the next five nights)

Matt: Just so you know, that's not a good thing. (Looks at me). I'll be quiet now.

Back to American Justice. I really think Mumia killed that dude.

Anyway, I guess I'm not wearing this outfit again. It's a shame too, because it was really comfortable.

I guess that brings us to fashion rule numero uno: looking good doesn't necessarily feel good. And fashion rule numero two: husbands suck.

A Trip to The Village

First off, before I talk about my trip to a fancy-dancy mall, let me say that, growing up, my house, was right behind a motel called "The Village." It was a classy place, mostly catering to the men who worked for the power company, and pastors sleeping with the more dedicated members of their congregations. The thing I remember most about it is the sign in the front that never failed to have at least one light burned out, so it was always "T e V ll g ote" or somethng else as vague. When I learned to read, I would always very cleverly point out the missing letters, and what I thought the sign now said, punctuating things with a loud guffaw at my own humor. My mom would always purse her lips, and probably curse The Village under her breath. At the time, I thought she thought I was witty. Now that I'm older and a mother myself, I'm surprised she didn't call more babysitters.

Anyway, that is what I think of when I think "The Village," not a fancy mall. But today, because I had a student cancel on me, and because I can think of nothing I would rather do than sashay around a fancy mall whilst charging a hefty missed lesson fee, I visited the second Village, the one "at Corte Madera." Now, let me explain something: I work in Marin County, and I do all of my tutoring there, but I don't live there. There's one reason for that: I'm much, much too poor. Marin County is the place good yuppies go when Daddy dies. And, were I to have a rich relative who decided to kick it in the next two years or so, it is where I would most certainly buy a place. So, because of my poorness, I like to gaze at Marin Co. from afar, and once in awhile, pretend that I am cool enough to live there. That was my plan today. I walked into The Village, wearing my totally awesome leopard print flats (no one can tell they are from Target), and stalked around like it was for sale and the rent was due tonight. I either looked totally awesome, or like a raving idiot. But my hair looked damn good, so let's say "awesome."

There are a few things to think about when visiting a fancy mall. First off, there's no Auntie Anne's, and that blows. Second, you can't buy a freaking Philly cheesesteak anywhere. Third, (and I promise this is not about food), there are no Spencer's Gifts or any of those stores that sell nothing but athletic shoes and purple suits. It's something to get used to. But the good news is, you get Nordstrom instead. And, friends, there are no amounts of black light posters, incense, or fatty sandwiches that can equal the majesty that is a Nordstrom. More about that in a bit.

Here are the things that I don't like about fancy malls: 1) the sale section in Anthropologie, 2) the lack of food, 3) the fact that these people seem have eschewed air conditioners and fountains in favor of an outdoor "village feel," 4) the fact that no matter what I have on, I feel under dressed. Since most of those are self-explanatory, allow me to rant briefly on #1.

I have been to two Anthropologie's now--the one in Berkeley and the one in Corte Madera. I have bought quite a few things at the one in Berkeley, and most of them have been on sale. The sale section there is in a closet sized room, but the workers there are mostly students at UC, and are pretty nice and helpful. You can go in, find something, tell them what size you need, and they get it, show you something that will match, and then escort you out and to a dressing room. It's a nice experience. Not so at the Corte Madera store. First off, the sale section is again in a closet sized room, but I felt better of it because a few sale items had spilled out into the store at large, so things looked nice. That's before I stepped into The Room. The Room was roughly two degrees less than the surface of the sun. I don't know how it got so hot--maybe it was the lack of windows and the yards and yards of unwanted fabric lining the walls and floors in haphazard heaps. Maybe it was the sweaty, unwashed bodies of the poor being forced in like cattle. Inside The Room, girls worked elbow to elbow pulling out skirts and holding them up like silks at a bazaar. And because this is a great melting pot of a country, and an even greater melting pot of a region, no one in The Room spoke the same language. I definitely heard Spanish, German, and something that sounded Scandinavian while looking for a kimono dress. I know you're thinking that that's a misapproximation, but I'm being totally serious. This, with the heat and the many tongues, was like the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory of shopping. I finally found a dress in my size, and for the lovely, lovely price of $49.95, and fought my way out to take it to the dressing room. Once I got out, I looked for any available salesperson to perhaps show me to the dressing room. There were none. I finally saw one girl, but when I walked over to her, she turned around and started talking to someone else. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, my body heavy with the scent of The Room and poorness. Finally, I gave up, went back into The Room, where I shoved the dress onto a rack, and got the hell out. That kind of pisses me off. There's a shirt that I want from the Anthropologie website (and it's full price, natch), but something about the whole experience left me a little....hmmm...I don't know.

I didn't feel so poor and unwashed, however, when I stepped into Nordstrom. Nordstrom is the store I go to to wash off every bad shopping experience I've ever had. I luff me some Nordstrom. And I found my mod little jacket with the big buttons! I am so excited. Of course, it is still in the car, because I'm going to need to show my husband how cute I am in it before I tell him how much I paid for it....anyway, I may take a picture of it, as I am so happy with it.

My trip to The Village ended up a caesar salad and an iced tea at Boudin. It was a nice day, as most days are that end up with iced tea.

More Blatant Evidence That the Universe Does Not Want Me to Be Sexy

The world evidently has no use for sexy standardized test extraordinnaires, because once again, cosmic intervention is showing me that it's not meant for me to be sexy.

My mom is coming to town, so this morning I got up a whole hour before I had to go to work, took a nice long shower, BLOW DRIED MY FREAKING HAIR, and did my make up with appropriate amounts of blush so that I will not be deemed "pale" by said mom. I then put on the snakeskin pumps that you see about two posts down, a cute top, the only jeans that fit, and jangly earrings. I felt that I totally looked the part of successful, bicoastal daughter.

Except for the fact that I'm not.

Yes, the universe reminded me of that. The heels on these shoes are freaking thin. No sooner had I walked out the door that I started to tumble down the porch. Nice. I recovered, and walked down the walk to my car, where I totally wiped out on the sidewalk, scraping my ankle all to hell and dumping several key items out of my purse in the process. Now, I'm not going to claim that I'm the world's best at wearing heels, but I've done it enough to where falling twice in about a 30 second span of time is not normal.

So I get in the car, and put on my Ipod, as I figure that I need to pep myself back up into sexy fighting form. I sing to a mixture of Jet, Peaches, and Christina Aguilera on the way over the bridge. I am back. I am again fierce. I keep the Ipod on, and walk into the building, trying to imagine that I am on a catwalk with Ms. Jay from ANTM and he is wearing something appropriately ridiculous and probably involving feathers. I am walking like it is for sale and the rent is due tonight. Again, feeling good.

Yeah, but then, there's this work thing. And there are two of us in the office today. So it's busy (and yes, I know I shouldn't be taking out the time to type this, SHUT UP). To make matters worse, I started feeling weird. So now I'm quite sure that I have a urinary tract infection, which is about the most unsexy thing that one could get, except for maybe genital herpes, but even that has those commercials where good looking people talk about having outbreaks and crap, and hell, even Paris Hilton has freaking herpes. So I'm sitting here, twitching in my office chair, and twitching is not sexy.

I would growl, but I don't think that is sexy either.

To this, I only these words to say: What the hell, universe? What the hell? What do I have to do for you, you fickle bitch? Is it because I watch Rock of Love? Should I be spending my time in a soup kitchen instead? Goddammit, I spend way too much of my time with teenagers, don't I deserve to have a little adult fun?

I'm going to the bathroom now. On the way there, I'm going to try to be sexy. Which means I will fall. Most likely in front of some janitors or something.

Va Va Voom Lips, and Why I'm Hopelessly Unsexy

So anyone who knows me personally knows at least two things about me. 1) I'm gullible enough to be taken into just about any marketing ploy and 2) I'm a slut at heart. Not that I'm promiscuous or anything--I'm married to my high school sweetheart, and prefer to keep it that way, but I definitely have a predilection towards the sluttier looks and actions in life. I think it is because my hero is one Blanche Devereaux. Whatever. But anyway, with me, it's always the more cleavage the better, and I love to pine away looking at black pencil skirts and back seam fishnet hose.

Part of this look is, of course, red lips. I, however, have never owned a tube of red lipstick, and have always felt hopelessly scared by the stuff. Even though I have read countless fashion magazine articles about how to pull it off, I've always imagined myself buying it, putting it on, and then wham bam thank you ma'am--I'm transformed into Baby Jane. Although playing the part of Baby Jane won me some high school accolades in a drama competition (I went all out, bitches--you should have seen my hair), this is not a look I would like to revisit.

So imagine my excitement at finding Cover Girl's Tru Shine lipcolor collection, a collection that promises to match my skin tone and flatter my lips with any shade. It promises! It even says something about flattering 97% of skin tones. Now, if they had said 100%, I would have called bullshit, and perhaps I wouldn't have bought the product. But 97% sounds scientific, like this was all done in a lab, and out of their 100 models, three looked like ass, so they called it a day and slapped this 97% guarantee on it. It seems honest. Of course, I snap up Valentine Shine, which is a red lipstick. Hey, it promised! Va va va voom lips for the Morgan McSluttygirl!

So I buy the product, and on a day when I'm wearing all black, and thus need a pop, I pull it out. First off, putting lipstick on is a lot harder than I thought it was. To be quite honest, I never buy it--I always buy gloss, but I didn't think there was any huge change. Here's the deal though--you can't put lipstick on while hurdling toward the Richmond bridge at 70 mph. It requires precise detail--it requires for you to be stopped, and in front of a mirror, and possibly, with some sort of degree in lipstick application technology. So, while in line at the toll plaza, I pull out the tube and put it on, as carefully as possible. I mean, I'm not an expert, and I could tell I messed up a little at the top because my lips no longer had that little dip at the top center (what is that called?), but overall, it looked pretty good. And my lips were red!!! Really, really, red. I thought it looked fantastic. I handed my $4 over to the toll dude, smiled at him perhaps a little more than usual, and drove into Marin Co. knowing that I was sluttastically gorgeous.

And everything was going fine--I had a little spring in my step all that morning. I had an early morning student, and after meeting with her, went to the bathroom, and that's when I realized that my lips were no longer red. They were more like magenta. I kind of looked like one of those old women at the nursing home who is left to her own devices perhaps a bit more than she should be, and keeps layering on that one tube of Estee Lauder lipstick she bought in in 1984. Yes, that was me. The magenta was not cool. And not slutty.

So here are my theories: 1) Cover Girl knows that I am a pretender to the Devereaux throne, and feels that I can't handle red, so they downgraded me to magenta for my own good, 2) I'm one of the 3% of people who look like ass in this stuff or 3) I just really don't understand this lipstick thing. Perhaps if I had spent more time in applying it? I'm not sure. I mean, the product is actually nice--it's creamy, and has a nice shine to it, and the little silver tube is cute enough. But the color is just not for me. I think I'll try it a couple more times, and if it still doesn't work, well, there goes my hopes and dreams for sluttiness.

Oh well. I guess there is a place out there for bookish looking SAT tutors who aspire to red lips and back seam hose. I'm still holding on to the dream though!