make it safe and clean
CONTACT LAW ENFORCEMENT, I AM UNCONCERNED
I just put eye cream—cream formulated specifically for eyes—all over my face. It felt nice and, well, creamy, so I just kept going with it. Yeah that’s right, EYE cream on my FACE. Call the cops, I don’t give a fuck!
(Lately I am addicted to saying, “Call the cops, I don’t give a fuck” in response to just about everything. I need to stop doing this though, at least before the next time I move beyond Mr. Thirdbeer and bring along his tequila-shot companion. Because if I yell it all intoxicated in public someone probably will call the cops, and I will definitely give a fuck.) (Bail me out, internet!)
The eye cream was a free sample from Bobbi Brown, and it was the least she could do after irritating me with the “i” on the end of her name. And after enticing me to drop nearly $100 bucks on skincare shit. I have used Bobbi Brown’s particular goop ever since the day I showed up at Nordstrom, selected the counter with the least fussy/intimidating packaging and salespeople, and said, “Look, I’m old and I need better stuff for smearing on my face and also I would like to start wearing actual makeup once in a while.” Because except for the lengthy goth phase in which it was all about theatrics and Wet n’ Wild black eyeliner pencils, I had never actually worn “regular” makeup. You know, “I just want to look a bit less blotchy and a bit more professional” makeup.
That Bobbi Brown salesgirl had some highly tuned radar because she joked with me about books and wine, gave me wildly unnecessary compliments on my skin, and sold me a whole bunch of stuff that I love to this day. I am a Bobbi Brown fan. Even if she does share a name with a coked-up loser who liked to hit Whitney Houston and put songs on the soundtrack of the execrable Ghostbusters II.
(Should go without saying, but not a sponsored post. I don’t play that way.)
DON’T CALL THE COPS
The other day I got up insanely early (what else is new) and decided to make a fancy veggie sandwich to take to work. Then I dropped the mayonnaise jar. (That should be a cool way of saying you told somebody an uncomfortable truth, sucked at your comedy open mic, or got your girlfriend pregnant, but I literally just dropped the mayonnaise jar.) And then…burglar alarm! Shrieking at deafening volume in my house, waking up my sleeping family.
Burglar Alarm Lady on the Phone: We have a glass-break code here. Everything all right?
Me: Uh, yeah. I dropped the mayonnaise jar.
BALotP:
Say WHAT? That bitch is PREGNANT?!??BALotP: Did it break?
Me (wondering why she’s so interested in the state of my mayonnaise): No. But it was kind of loud.
BALotP: Well, the alarm listens for the frequencies of breaking glass, so maybe that was enough. If everything is okay I will cancel this.
Me: Great.
So all is well, except I never knew my alarm was that sensitive and now I am a bit paranoid. What if I want to have a plate-smashing good time in the middle of the night? I will have to remember to turn the alarm off first.
THEY OFFERED ME THE OFFICE, OFFERED ME THE SHOP
There is an off-site work person that I am really starting to hate, and I have to talk to this person frequently on the phone. I dislike this person so much that sometimes I worry that it comes through in my voice, and that I am getting snippy or brusque in response to said person’s VERY TEDIOUS QUESTIONS and INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND THE SIMPLEST THINGS.
But thank you, Breaking Bad, because now I just pretend I am Gus Fring. Calm, polite, hospitable, homicidal. (What does a mid-level managing editor do, Walter? A mid-level managing editor provides for her family.) It works to keep me level. It is just business, after all. (I will kill your wife. I will kill your son. I will kill your infant daughter.)
I even say, “Enjoy your day,” before hanging up. It totally works!
—mimi smartypants, in your grocer’s freezer.