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December 08, 2006
Gorbachev Is Hot
Oh hell no.
As you know, I love all painful beauty treatments. Painful in the spiritual sense and sometimes physically because I’m disgusting like that. Remember when I was on Obagi and my face flaked off all hours of the night and I looked like the Crypt Keeper and I cried and cried. Yeah, secretly I was feeling that shit because you got to get real ugly before you can get real pretty.
Anyway, yesterday I went for my monthly facial. Usually after all my extractions and zapping (yes, I get each individual open extraction wound zapped with a glass wand from Paris – exciting!) I get a mask. I opt most times for the Vitamin C mask. Last time I got the glycolic peel. And it was cool. Not too many scabs. So I thought, Yeah let’s do that again.
And, like I said oh hell no.
I have got not one, not two, but count ‘em, three holiday parties to go to in the next couple of days and I look like fucking Gorbachev. Why do I make such bad mistakes? My timing is just terrible!
I have a huge huge huge scab near my mouth and then what looks like shrapnel haphazardly about my cheekbones and chin. I mean, could the powers that be be any more cruel? My cheekbones are all I have! Those are my go to accessories for any party. I bronze them up and boom, instant party time. But now all I have are my lips and everybody’s seen those. We’re over those now! Ugh.
The scabs are in that light brown, just a day ago they were raw and red phase. I have to have them dark brown ready to fall off by tomorrow at 9. So not going to happen.
The party tomorrow is the party. HELLO! You have to go to the boss’s party. You know my boss is not messing around. His party is fixin’ to have all kinds of pretty hors' deurves that you’re scared to touch (first). He’ll serve all the wine and strawberry champagne and I know he’s got helluv Prince and Sheila E on his playlist. If you know anything about my boss, you know that he is just plain fantastic, like seven notches above fabulous because he’s down-to-earth and nice. For example, he’ll buy Prada boots and then feel bad about them. Not buy them and rock them and have his nose in the air. He’s cool like that. I love a mother fucker with buyer’s remorse matched with the unwillingness to do anything about it like actually return the item. He can’t, the boots are too hot. Such is life.
But what was I saying? He’ll have pretty actresses, working ones, in attendance. And they’ll be tall and smell really great. And sure, one of them will have an ugly handbag but it will be Fendi so you can’t really say shit. There are going to be artsy people, the kind that look crazy slash homeless but are all intriguing because they’re multimillionaires and you’d never guess it by appearance or behavior. You know, actual interesting people with talent. Oh no, and there will be gay couples who are married even though it’s not even legal. And they’ll wear silk Hermes scarves and hold their champagne glasses all gingerly. And they’ll be smart and funny and stank – which is the exact combo you need to be awesome. All the while, I look like Fourth Season Escobar Gallardo. I’m shooting two birds, two!, at the screen right now. OKAY! What the hell is this?
So I called Coral and I was like, “If you saw my face, you’d say I can’t go to the party.”
She replied, “You’re just being dramatic. You’re fucking in your 20s. Why are you getting glycolic peels, weirdo?”
By the way, she knows this is the last time she can say I’m in my 20s because come February I won’t be. That was nice of her. Wasn’t it? Wait, was it?
She can say I’m being dramatic though because she doesn’t know the pain that I speak of. She has porcelain Creole lady poreless skin like the asshole that she is. Anytime I tell her her skin is amazing and that I hate her guts she just snaps my hair about and is like, shut up bitch. Totally, but still! Wouldn’t you rather have great skin?
Anyway, she said I was being dramatic and I said, "Hang up the phone! I’m sending a picture."
I picture phoned myself and sent it.
She called me back and was like, “You can’t go to the party.”
I almost started crying. Not really, but my heart sank. I was like, “OH NO!”
She said, “Get to the Prescriptives counter. Go with big black sunglasses and your hair down and just tell them you need help now.”
I was like, “Okay!”
And then she threw in, “No Uggs*.”
And I was like “DUH, you asshole, I have to wear heels and a nice coat and scarves and look like a bored housewife who took it one treatment too far.”
She’s like, “Yeah.”
I hung up and took a long shower, as if, being hyper clean would make me feel better about myself.
The irony of all this is that I got the facial to feel better and now it just backfired. I had mentioned to J that I was feeling gross and ugly and unattractive and ugh. He said, like all good boyfriends should, I looked pretty, that I was crazy for even talking like that. But I do feel ugly. That happens when it’s winter time and your go-to outfit is a shirt from your boyfriend’s company that is printed wrong with boys department sweat pants and Uggs with one bleach spot on the toe because of The Great Bleach Spill of 2006 (which just happened three days ago doing the linens, damn you!). But then, he called over here with his nice voice because he's been super busy and old girl hasn't gotten any attention lately and he was like, "What are you doing?" and I said "Googling scabs..."
He asked me what was wrong and I said, "Look around babe. Did you see my face! We've got the party! Hello! I know you're busy and everything but could you be that oblivious?" His response...
Wait for it.
"Maybe you can wear a burka to the party."
I told him that wasn't funny. He apologized and went back to the nice voice, but too late. Damage is done.
So I called first the Prescriptives counter in Bloomingdale’s and explained my dilemma. The counter manager said that it might not be a good idea to put makeup on it, but I was like NO. We have to. And she said to come in. I told her to be prepared. That I was quite emotional right now and that I looked like a crazy person. She was laughing and everything. It’s good to butter up the people that have the power to change your fortune. At least when I go in there tonight, I won’t seem high maintenance and annoying (which in reality, is the actual case, but whatever). I’ll just appear to be neurotic and needing concealer, which for me, seems like a better way to come off.
SO yeah. Wish me luck. And oh, I so called Caridee winning a couple months ago. Told you. And now that it’s been revealed that Beyonce is 32 years old like I have always suspected, I will wait patiently for Angelina Jolie’s birth documents to appear because there’s no way in hell she’s only a year older than I am. Oh please. Look at her elbows. I'm telling you -- cocoa butter daily to the elbows. Please, if you hear nothing else I tell you, just do the cocoa butter. My goodness.
UPDATE:
It’s the morning of the party, y’all.
Last night, I spent $32 on the custom blended concealer. L, my custom blending friend, worked for an hour or more just reassuring me and mixing. It matches perfectly. The scab is lumpy this morning though. Like, bigger and blacker, but not hilarious. It’s not ready to be picked either. I know, no picking. Shush your mouth, I know.
I have to go pick up my dress from the cleaners. I have to get that padded bra out. And Zappos better deliver those heels today. Fifty dollars! You better get those before they wise up. They’re cute in the dark red too, but I already have red shoes. I’m going to sit by the front door all morning. I’m about to do my cardio too.
I’ll let you know how it goes. For now, I have to stop worrying about me and start worrying about J. OH GOD, what is he going to wear?
He already thinks he’s wearing some inappropriate t-shirt he’s made. I’ll say J, no one thinks abortion, Terri Schaivo or the bisexuality of polar bears is very festive so try another shirt. How about this one with a collar? He’ll complain but I run this bitch, I tell you. Then we’ll argue about the shoes. No, not those Timberland boots again. You’re not hiking and you’re not handling steel beams so get those out of here. I’ll pull out one of the MANY pairs of clean fancy sneakers like DJ AM has in front of him and he’ll say, But…and I’ll shoot him the nasty glare of the century and he’ll just put the shoes on. Gross, did I just say sneakers dead seriously?
Ugh, then it’s on to the beard. I guess we’ll just comb it? I hate that beard. Why, why does he insist on the beard?
*Whatever Coral. I'm getting you some sick Uggs for your birthday and I know you'll wear them and love them so whatever, mkay.
Posted by melissah at December 8, 2006 10:13 AM