The New Makeup Aisle - in Home Depot.

Please don't go look.  You won't find it, at least I don't think so.  You could probably wing it though and come up with some pretty good deals if you want to buy makeup in bulk.

So I've talked about this in previous posts.  The differences you discover buying makeup as you get older.  Now apparently, they're priming our young women for that day.  Ha, I said priming.  You'll see the irony there soon enough.

I've noted this in the last week alone, watching television commercials.  Eyeshadows with built in "primer" and lipstick is now called lip "stain".  Really?  Ugh.  It's bad enough we've always had foundation, which we all know is how you start a building.  Apparently that's how you start your makeup regime too.  Tammy Faye Baker made a name for herself doing just that didn't she?

Well because I couldn't let sleeping dogs lie, I decided to research this just to prove my point.  I only hit up one site, Olay.  And boy oh boy, it's worse than I thought.  If I bought all this stuff and looked in my makeup case after a night of a few too many tequilas, I might think I'd picked up the toolbox by mistake.

The proof is in the pudding though.  Or the primer as the case may be.

Lip stain
Eyebrow threading
Foundation
Eye primer
Body waxing
Skin restoration
Wrinkle filler
Firming cream
Sculpting serum
Superstructure cream
Resurfacing elixir
Eye roller
Concealer
Sealant wrinkle treatment
Abrasion and peel system
Color recapture
Tone corrector
Firming serum
Spot treatment

This is the list garnered from minimum research.  Can you even imagine what I could come up with if I really dug my teeth into this thing?  Aye aye aye!

I'll admit, I'm tempted.  If I was rich I'd buy it all.  Then again if I was rich, I'd have a plastic surgeon who could ensure I didn't need all this, and make sure my nipples were put back into that whole looking up frame of mind at the same time.

I'm scared though.  Would those door to door home repair people knock me down to steal my makeup case?  Or would I suddenly experience delusions of home repair and start fixing up the house?

Maybe....just maybe, it's a marketing campaign to familiarize our husbands with our shopping and grooming rituals so they'll feel more welcome in our bathrooms.  Who knows.

What I do know is that although my rear end might be as big as a house, I'm not ready to be spackled yet.

Growing Old Gracefully - You're Kidding Right?

My first post on the new blog. I'm having a party to celebrate and you're all invited. The address is....hm. Probably shouldn't do that. Skip the party, I'll be thinking about you. I promise. Or maybe watching new wrinkles form around my eyes.

No, I'm not growing old gracefully. I've got a jackhammer with my name all over it and honey, I'm not afraid to use it! If I had the money, I'd be having face lifts and botox injections so I too could look like every celebrity that's managed to stick around past their twenties. No, I have no shame. Not when it comes to aging. 

I. Don't. Like. It.

At all. One little bit. Nary at all. It sucks. I want my butt back. I'd like to be able to find my boobs without sending out a search and rescue party when I lie down. I want to go to bed without smelling of formaldehyde. In little sexy outfits even. I want my bedside table back.  I used to have pretty little things there. Photographs, candles, a little journal. 

Now I can't even find a place to lay my phone down for the bottles of creams and fillers....UGH.....yes ladies and gentlemen, they call them fillers. Like putty. Or spackle. What kind of marketing genius is that huh? Now I can feel like a house without even looking at my rear end in the mirror. Oh wait......I don't have a rear end anymore.  

Now, I have a magnifying mirror. Tweezers. Fillers. Hair color. Dare I say it.....a girdle even. I haven't reached the depths of depravity that would cause me to actually wear it, but it's there for when that day comes. I can no longer combine comfort and sexy. If I look good, I have to pay the piper. If I'm comfy, well I darn sure don't look good. We won't even talk swimsuits. I refuse to bow down to the requirements of age where swimwear is concerned. I'd rather remain pasty, even if my family has to wear shades when I show my legs.

I spend my nights tweezing, buffing, exfoliating, slathering, shaping, sloughing, shaving, stretching and weeping for the days when my bedtime ritual consisted of a shower and a sexy little nightie.

To make matters worse, I live with an eighteen year old daughter.

Am I jealous of her? Naaaah. Would I rip off her left boob to have her body? Maybe. Who am I kidding, I'd settle for just her skin. When you're that age, you can still use the term alabaster when talking skin. At my age, words like granite, concrete and stucco come to mind.  

So yes, I'm fighting. Kicking. Screaming. Swearing from time to time. And when I have money, I'm hitting up the aisles at Walgreens for the next new miracle that promises to restore youth and elasticity. I'm stalking Victoria's Secret picking out the bras I want when I have a nice young doctor put my nipples back where they're supposed to be. I'm considering asking my husband for that chemical he uses at work to see if I can make a do it yourself botox cocktail.

Until that time comes, you can find me in my cow pajamas with makeup case in hand.  Just in case I have to go to the mailbox. After all, we all know the second you walk out of the front door in your pajamas and no makeup is when Hugh Jackman will wander up to your house, lost and looking for the nearest Starbucks.