days until we move to Whistler. I spent much of yesterday doing laundry, culling my closet, and clearing out the ensuite bathroom. Another resolution: No more cosmetic impulse buys, particularly lipstick. There are approximately 2 shades of pink that flatter my pale complexion; everything else makes me look either like a harlot (not the good kind) or an escapee from the Night of the Living Dead who actually believed the fashion mag's assertion that "everyone can wear coral".
Typically, I make these purchases when stopping in at the pharmacy on my way home from work in order to buy pantyhose for a function that evening. I will have just looked at my tired work face and my boring work hair under the garish fluorescent in the tiny office bathroom and decided that if I am going to feel good about myself tonight, it's Time For a Change. Because I am fretful about communicable disease, I do not try the sampler, but simply pick a shade which looks pretty. In the tube that is, or possibly on the poreless model hovering in cardboard glory over the display.
Once home, I invariably apply the lipstick last, at the point at which we have exactly 12 seconds to get out the door and still make it on time. I inspect my reflection with horror, scrub it off, fret about how the scrubbing process has made the area around my mouth look flushed and blotchy, apply my regular lipstick, race downstairs and pepper my harried husband with queries about the adequacy of my appearance.
But it doesn't end there. The tube of lipstick can not, of course, be returned or passed on. I can not throw it away because it is still Perfectly Good and Brand New. So it sits at the bottom of the cosmetic stash for a year or two, until it is old enough to have plausibly grown germs, at which point I can finally discard it in good conscience, because it has become a Safety Issue.
Another crocheted silver piece, with some scrumptious Sleeping Beauty turquoise. I'll post proper pictures when it's all done.
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