Mary Freaking Kay

I’m not a fan of Mary Kay. Not the makeup or the ideology or the pink Cadillac’s or the idea that “your friends are going to buy makeup anyways so they may as well pay you for it.” I despise hearing lines like “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad experience, but we have a cleanser (eye-liner/ color palate/ perfume/ moisturizer/ nail polish) for every skin type!” and “Mary Kay has really changed their target demographic, they’re younger and more hip now.”

And tell me why I always find myself in a room of over-perfumed and over-bleached women with hideous brown shades spackled on their eyes, cheeks and lips ooh-ing and aah-ing over how beautiful I am as I expertly apply their purple-palate to my eyes. Though you would think I might enjoy these tender utterings in my favor, I know that truly they just want me to sign up to sell their makeup and become their collective protégé. I don’t know what the going rate for signing an underling in the makeup world is, but it must be pretty darned good. In that cramped living room with 4 sets of spider eyes blinking at me, I feel more pressure to say yes than a cheerleader on prom night.

This, however, is not my major grievance with Mary Kay. With shame I admit to you that I have been suckered in to these cramped living rooms and musty basements with the cleverly used promises of a “pampering session” or a “make over”. Once, a lady had the audacity of announcing with vigor that myself and my bridesmaids had won a spa day with a pizza lunch. I have two fundamental issues with that invitation. One, what self-respecting spa gives you pizza for lunch? Two, what part of some cleanser on a q-tip resembles a spa? How am I supposed to feel pampered as I apply my own toner and moisturizer from a cheap cotton ball? Pampering would be me in an over-large reclining chair with low lights, plinky music, and someone doing that for me!

But now I am the wiser. I can hear it in their voice, even though they very carefully will never admit they’re from Mary Kay. I will never again be sucked into the vortex of exaggerated color and fake smiles.

I Hate Neighbors

So I've never lived in an apartment before. Hopefully, I will never have to do so again. I don't particularly like giving directions to a complex where 45 buildings look the same. I don't like having to walk up three flights of stairs when carrying 18,000 pounds of groceries. And I really don't like the people that moved in right below us.

About 6 weeks ago, they moved in. With their yappy little dog. I remember the first time we heard the thing. Jake and I were standing in the kitchen unpacking about 12,000 pounds of groceries, and it began. Then about three days later, we walked in the door and there was an unmistakable and overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke in our very non-smoking apartment, wafting up through some sort of air duct.

That's not even the most offensive thing that's happened to us since they've moved in. For some reason, they seem to think that 4 foot statues of hooded monks with giant crosses around their necks are ok to put, in triplicate outside their front door. I genuinely startled when I first came down the stairs and saw them. I said to Jake that they couldn't possibly intend to keep them there. Well...it's been 6 weeks and the only thing that's changed is they've added an ugly totem pole on their balcony.

Tonight was the final straw for me. I came home to an apartment that, yet again, reeked of their second-hand smoke. I called the apartment complex and very sweetly asked if they could try to fix the problem. (left a message)

Later, Jake tackled me on our bed. This always makes me laugh, and since I'm not used to being tackled by anyone on a regular basis, always catches me off guard. About five minutes later someone pounded on our door. I figured that it was the maintinance guy coming to fix our problem. I scurried to get something a bit more "Hi maintinance guy" and a little less, "Hi, husband" appropriate. But then I hear a woman's voice, and Jake saying, "I was just sitting at the computer...No, really, I was just sitting there."

Apparently the worst neighbors in the world think that there's something wrong with us and the ugly, fat lady was yelling at my husband and I for being loud and stomping around. Really? had I not been scrambling for a hoodie, I would have given her quite the piece of my mind. I would have, with extended finger, recounted to her the time that her yapping dog interrupted our Valentine's day dinner.

Never had a war with another neighbor. Who knows, this could get ugly. There may be hooded monks involved.