Swimsuit Foresight from the Marshalls Dressing Room Lady

“Good Luck”

That phrase, buckling under the weight of a Ukranian accent, were the last words the dressing room attendant at Marshalls uttered before she handed me the five swimsuits I had chosen to try on.

Really?  Good Luck?

She could have said a myriad of things:

  • Thank you
  • Here you go
  • Don’t try stealing anything, I’m watching you
  • Nice selection
  • Call me, maybe?

But to say “good luck”, as if sliding the latch on the dressing room door could be the last thing my pasty wintered body might ever do…What was she expecting the end result to be?

Image

Please.  Happy swimsuit season, everyone!

Have you ever had a bizarre shopping experience? Tell me about it in the comments section

The Witch Hunt for Beauty

I’m no Kim Kardashian. In addition to never having made a sex tape that shot me and my galaxy-quaking booty to celebrity status, I’m not a girly-girl. Kim loves make-up, dresses, shoes, hair products and glamour. I’m what can best be described as a “guyly girl.” I take the man approach to my appearance.

Do I have toothpaste on my face?” Are inappropriate parts of my body showing? Is my mustache unkempt?

If the answer to all of these questions is ‘no’, I’m ready to head outside-and honestly, I’d be lying if I said I never found little speckles of Crest on my face hours into my day.

I’ve always respected girls who take the time to get gussied up, and know how to get gussied up well. That has never been a forte of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m an attractive person, but I just have never cared enough to make an effort to look nice on most days. I credit my loving family and my inherent naiveté for bestowing to me an impressive amount of self-esteem for my physical self.

When I was a child I used to think that wearing make up was a type of sin. Side note: I went to a Catholic school grades K-12, so I literally thought it could be a sin.

Why would anyone want to change the way they look? God wanted you to look a certain way, and you’re perfect the way you are. Makeup changes what you’re supposed to look like. Why mess with something that’s already perfect?

That feeling lasted right up until I got my first set of volcanic pimple colonies that decided to loudly and proudly take residence on my forehead. They still visit me three to four times a month. Bastards.

Even when puberty started deflating my confidence and made me crave attention from boys, I just couldn’t bring myself to make the effort to spruce up my looks. There were rumors that some girls woke up three hours before they had to leave just to curl their hair and make sure their make up was perfect. Was I jealous of their perfectly coiffed hair and glossy lips? Of course. But Holy-Beauty-Sleep-Batman, who has time for that?

When I was in college, I thought I would take my newly found freedom and my years of nonexistent beauty expertise out for a test drive. I was going to attempt the mecca of all beauty adventures: it was time to dye my hair. (Mistake #1)

My reasoning: My hair is brown but my eye brows are black. Shouldn’t the curtains match the valances?

Before I reveal how horrific this endeavor proved to be, let me say this: thank God I didn’t attempt to dye my eyebrows brown! I’m sure I would have ended up looking like this guy:

hey sexy

I, Lady Beautynoob, needed assistance with this quest, so I quickly appointed the two most qualified candidates for the job: my two dude friends. Their skateboarding skills and insatiable competitive drive to out-fart each other didn’t seem to align with the beauty aspect of this adventure, but they were endearing.

I let them pick out the box of dye. (Mistake #2)

The color: Black Pearl. (Mistake #3). Did you know that the word “pearl” ,as related to hair dye, is not a noun but an adjective? As in “Shiny as a pearl.” As in “So shiny you will look like you used Turtle Wax as conditioner.” As in “Your hair will look like a Halloween witch’s wig.”

The resounding silence after I finished drying my new noir locks should have been my first hint that I had made a terrible mistake. Re-cue my naiveté; it couldn’t be that bad.

Dudefriend #1: It….looks…good?

Dudefriend #2: Yea…..I think you…..you pull it off?….yeah, you totally pull it off…

Dudefriend #1: …..Totally…

Hair that has been treated by a box of grocery store hair dye feels like a bale of hay that has been microwaved, sliced with rusty sporks and laid out to bake in the Sahara.  My mane was very, very mad at me.

So I did the only thing a girl who doesn’t care about her appearance can do when her witch hair is crying out for respite: nothing.  For seven months I just let my hair do it’s thing.  It grew and grew and before I knew it I had about four inches of brown roots on top of my head, trying to catch up to the 12+ inches of witch hair below.

I didn’t realize I had done anything wrong until I came home on summer break.  I hadn’t seen my high school friend in about a year and was excited to have her come over.  When I opened the door to let her in the first words out of her mouth were not “Hi! I missed you!”  Instead, she immediately blurted “Oh no.  We need to fix this.”

I’m so glad I have women in my life that know what to do in hairy beauty situations.  Under the steady hand of a trained hair professional my locks returned to brown.  But my beauty apathy levels have stayed relatively the same.

My hair keeps slowly wrapping itself around my neck, which means it’s almost time for a haircut.  I think it’s just trying to enact revenge for the black pearl incident.  Honestly, I don’t blame it.  I think I’ll just ask the stylist to do whatever she thinks would look the best.  I wonder what Kim Kardashian would have to say.

Do you have any hilarious beauty mishap stories?  Are you a ‘Guyly Girl’ too?  Comment below!

Girl Brains- The Delinquents

*Author’s Note* Girlbrains is a section of this blog where I write commentary on actual diary entries and/or notes that young girls write.  It’s funny because they’re insane.*

Warning! If you are thinking of having children, read with caution.  This post may make you want to hire a med student to take out your uterus and sell it on the black market.  Take a moment and read a note sent from one wild child to another during the dreaded teenage years.  Having trouble reading the note?  You can read a typed out version here.

Where do I even begin?

First of all, I want to speak directly to any new parents reading this.  Don’t worry.  Not all teenagers will scoff at your parental guidelines and reject your care for their well being like Simon Cowell rejects special needs singers.  Then again, I’m sure the mother of this bull-minded young lady never thought that her child would grow up to be such a defiant delinquent.  Ha.  I’m still amused that she called her parents delinquents.

Lets get down to business now.  While reading and re-reading this note, I couldn’t get over the injustice this poor girl is suffering at the hands of the monsters that call themselves her ‘parents’.  Thank goodness there was a child brave enough to stare down the evil entities and ‘put them in their place’.

A curfew?! What do you think this is?  Some sort of system where you provide me with food and shelter and I am expected-nay-DEMANDED to adhere to guidelines ensuring my safety?!? Oh the inhumanity!

How dare these ingrates demand to know where their daughter is going!  William Wallace could have found a life partner with the author.

“They may give me a curfew, but they will never take my freedom!”

Actually, to be completely honest, I kind of admire her conviction.  She is sassy, strong, and won’t stand for injustice.  If she headed up the Occupy Wall Street movement I’m pretty positive the demands would have been met three months ago.

I would also like to thank the author of this note for clearing up a controversial subject: This is clear evidence that corporal punishment does not work.  Do you want to punish your children by hitting them? Apparently the pain only lasts for a minute, and after they endure the pain, they win.  Spanking leads to  calloused-bottomed children running amok in the neighborhood, doing laundry and keeping their rooms clean.  For the love of humanity, use the time-out method- USE THE TIME-OUT METHOD!

Some of my friends have recently had babies, and for a nano second I began to think  “oh, wouldn’t it be so much fun to be a mom?”  But this letter reminded me that cute babies turn into egotistical, irrational, LUNATIC teenagers that are capable of speaking.  No babies for this girl.  Crisis averted.

Did you drive your parents crazy? Tell me how in the comments section!

Girlbrains- The Stalker

This is the first official Girlbrains post.  I hope you enjoy it!

We have two obvious points to discuss here.

1.  She is, without a doubt, STALKING this boy!  Poor Max.  Poor theatre-loving, minding-his-own-business, completely-oblivious-to-the-danger-he’s-in Max.  Did you think it was just coincidence that every single show you were in also involved Susie?  You know Susie, the girl who laughed hysterically at every joke you made.  The girl you always caught trying to make eye contact with you. The girl who just happened to be hanging out by your locker in between every period, even though her locker was two floors above yours.  The girl who always seemed to “tie her shoes” at the exit to the theatre, and always finished right as you walked by.  The girl who started the rumor that your girlfriend was a lesbian.  The girl you caught trying to snip a locket of hair off your head.  She just wanted to get to know you better.  I hope Max is still alive.

2.  “I just melt whenever he’s near.”  William Shakespeare called.  He vomited and then hung up.

For the males reading this:

You always wanted to know how a woman’s mind works, right? Well, THIS IS HOW IT STARTS OUT!  Obsession.  If you ever have daughters, teach them to be ambitious.  Ambition is a good thing.  Tracking and hunting humans, however, should be discouraged.