At some point in the last month I decided that I was starting to look like hell, so I fired up my cauldron, threw a toad over my shoulder, and ordered a bunch of stuff from Sephora.com. It's somewhat ironic, if I'm using that word correctly, and I'm pretty sure that I am, that last Thursday night, before we went out, Maggie went through her makeup bag and suggested ten different products that no doubt would have made me look like Ingrid Bergman in vintage suede. But when she was done offering me everything short of greasepaint and a giant comedy powder puff, I mumbled something about being makeup phobic and went off to dig through her recycling until I found a paper bag that would fit over my head, my heart, and my soot-encrusted soul.

Well, round about Saturday afternoon I gave in and borrowed some lipstick. Wow, major concession! I know. But seriously, I'm lazy, and combine that with some minor self-esteem issues and you have a woman who's preversely proud of the fact that she gets ready for the day in thirty seconds without consulting a mirror.

A woman who denies she has a face, basically.

It's all those goddamn fashion magazines, they try to make you think you need $1,800 worth of tinted moisturizer just to get out the door.

Look at how much I'm exaggerating! Holy mother, I'm defensive about this.

Anway, when I got back home Monday afternoon there was a little box waiting on my desk chair that contained some fruity soaps and one of these:

I couldn't open it. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know the magic incantation that would pop the lid. I sat there for two full minutes struggling with it until Jack couldn't bear to watch anymore and wrenched it open with his manly hands.

Halfway there!

Ta-daa!

This little paint box sweetly told my makeup phobia to go fuck itself. Look at all the mistakes I'll be able to make in the privacy of my own home! This thing will probably save me hundreds of dollars, not to mention the agony of going out and buying the wrong color everything, then throwing it all in the trash, putting on my Hefty bag rain coat, and stuffing my sweatpants into my tube socks.

Because after all the tears, there would be no other choice.

Of course, this picture just makes me look like the crinkly, home-birthing, champagne addict that I am, but I swear to you, I have smudges of plum eyeshadow on here, AND the right color blush. God, when did I become such a girl? Naturally, I couldn't be bothered to brush my hair or put on a decent shirt. Because I'm a rebel. I also think I should say a few more preventative fucks just so I won't start swooning over ads for anti-aging eye serum.

Cookie is a natural beauty.