Clinique Counters and Cheese con Queso
I’m surprised the Macy’s near Downtown Crossing train station hasn’t blacklisted me. It’s my go-to spot if I’m meeting anyone after work and have time to kill. I cruise the perfume counters like they’re all-you-can-eat buffets. I paw through clearance jewelry with more gusto than a kid in a candy store. I could find the bathroom in that 4-story maze in my sleep.
Needless to say, they adore me over there.
Yesterday I was meeting B for a block party right across from Macy’s. I was ready to kick back w/ more than a few beers, but had quite a dilemma. The thing is, this really gross zit had taken camp on the bottom half of my chin, and after 9+ hours, my drugstore concealer wasn’t concealing anything.
I considered going to the CVS next door and buying more concealer, but being thecheap practical gal I am, I reasoned that I didn’t need an entire bottle. Just a dab. Like the amount you’d sample at the Clinique counter at Macy’s. What a coincidence that I happened to be on my way to kill some time at Macy’s. Fortune was smiling upon me, my friends.
Under normal circumstances, I would never use the samples at a make-up counter. I’m not a snob or anything; if you saw the type of customers who make up the clientele of the Downtown Crossing Macy’s, you’d agree w/ me. But this zit practically had its own heartbeat; it wasn’t a zit so much as an entity.
I staked out the Clinique counter until both associates were assisting other customers. No way was I dealing w/ some pushy salesgirl who was going to try and give me a half-face makeover and comment on how I could use a good moisturizer. I already know I have combination skin, thank you very much.
While they were both occupied, I swooped in on the concealer, grabbed the first one I saw with the pink “sample” sticker and squirted a tiny bit on my finger.
“Thanks for waiting! What can I help you with?” The woman was standing in front of me in her lab coat and I almost panicked. I couldn’t apply the concealer now. I didn’t want to make her barf, after all. But I didn’t want to get sucked into some 30-minute demo about choosing my skin type, either.
“Just browsing, thanks.” I rubbed some of the concealer on the top of my hand like I’d seen real customers do to check if it’s the correct shade. Then I hauled ass out of there and found a deserted mirror near the clearance bags. Two dabs of the concealer, and I was good to go. It wasn’t really my skin color (I don’t think they stock my unique shade of “pale as shit” in the summer months), but at least it wasn’t meriting stares anymore.
Crisis averted, I was ready to enjoy my night w/ B. We only planned on having a few drinks at the block party. We didn’t want to get too drunk and have a horrible, hungover Friday. Funny thing about drinking. It seems to interfere w/ your ability to make good decisions. Who knew?
After a beer at the block party, we headed elsewhere in hopes of a shorter wait at the bar and air conditioning. After knocking back a few more, we decided to head to Howl at the Moon, where an FB friend of ours had posted about a happy hour deal she had won. We were just going to “stop in and say hi.”
Riiiight.
The dueling pianos were going, which B had never seen before. They’re really entertaining. At least, they usually are. I wouldn’t know about the ones last night; I was too busy having a half-hour photo shoot. That's what happy hour does to you; it makes you forget that you’re still in your work clothes, you didn’t shower this morning, and you have a pimple hijacking the entire bottom half of your chin.
After a few drinks at Howl, B and I convince a friend to head to another bar for some scorpion bowls. Because that’s what we all needed at this point. Never mind that it’s after 9pm (a time usually reserved for falling asleep on the couch), or the fact that none of us have had any food in our systems since lunch.
Not our brightest idea.
I wake up this morning, deciding to skip the shower for an extra 15 minutes of sleep, when I get a whiff of the bartender pouring out all the old drinks. That’s weird; I slept in my bed, not at the bar. I realize that smell is me and that not showering is not an option.
I’m piecing the night together w/ B when I remember that I never made my lunch last night. I’m already running late, what’s another five minutes? I head to the fridge to find my lunch neatly packed and ready to go.
Me: Look at that! I remembered to make my lunch last night!
B: Oh yeah, it’s like, the first thing you did when we got home. You went straight for the refrigerator. I heard you rustling around out here while I was getting ready for bed. After you made your lunch, you were eating Tostito’s and cheese con queso* straight out of the jar. I passed out and when I woke up later to go puke you were still out here eating.
Me: Is that supposed to surprise me in any way?
*I know, I know, it's salsa con queso. But I think cheese con queso sounds much more appealing.
Needless to say, they adore me over there.
Yesterday I was meeting B for a block party right across from Macy’s. I was ready to kick back w/ more than a few beers, but had quite a dilemma. The thing is, this really gross zit had taken camp on the bottom half of my chin, and after 9+ hours, my drugstore concealer wasn’t concealing anything.
I considered going to the CVS next door and buying more concealer, but being the
Under normal circumstances, I would never use the samples at a make-up counter. I’m not a snob or anything; if you saw the type of customers who make up the clientele of the Downtown Crossing Macy’s, you’d agree w/ me. But this zit practically had its own heartbeat; it wasn’t a zit so much as an entity.
I staked out the Clinique counter until both associates were assisting other customers. No way was I dealing w/ some pushy salesgirl who was going to try and give me a half-face makeover and comment on how I could use a good moisturizer. I already know I have combination skin, thank you very much.
While they were both occupied, I swooped in on the concealer, grabbed the first one I saw with the pink “sample” sticker and squirted a tiny bit on my finger.
“Thanks for waiting! What can I help you with?” The woman was standing in front of me in her lab coat and I almost panicked. I couldn’t apply the concealer now. I didn’t want to make her barf, after all. But I didn’t want to get sucked into some 30-minute demo about choosing my skin type, either.
“Just browsing, thanks.” I rubbed some of the concealer on the top of my hand like I’d seen real customers do to check if it’s the correct shade. Then I hauled ass out of there and found a deserted mirror near the clearance bags. Two dabs of the concealer, and I was good to go. It wasn’t really my skin color (I don’t think they stock my unique shade of “pale as shit” in the summer months), but at least it wasn’t meriting stares anymore.
Crisis averted, I was ready to enjoy my night w/ B. We only planned on having a few drinks at the block party. We didn’t want to get too drunk and have a horrible, hungover Friday. Funny thing about drinking. It seems to interfere w/ your ability to make good decisions. Who knew?
Another sign I saw from the wineries my sisters and I visited. Truer words have never been written.
After a beer at the block party, we headed elsewhere in hopes of a shorter wait at the bar and air conditioning. After knocking back a few more, we decided to head to Howl at the Moon, where an FB friend of ours had posted about a happy hour deal she had won. We were just going to “stop in and say hi.”
Riiiight.
The dueling pianos were going, which B had never seen before. They’re really entertaining. At least, they usually are. I wouldn’t know about the ones last night; I was too busy having a half-hour photo shoot. That's what happy hour does to you; it makes you forget that you’re still in your work clothes, you didn’t shower this morning, and you have a pimple hijacking the entire bottom half of your chin.
Not our brightest idea.
I wake up this morning, deciding to skip the shower for an extra 15 minutes of sleep, when I get a whiff of the bartender pouring out all the old drinks. That’s weird; I slept in my bed, not at the bar. I realize that smell is me and that not showering is not an option.
I’m piecing the night together w/ B when I remember that I never made my lunch last night. I’m already running late, what’s another five minutes? I head to the fridge to find my lunch neatly packed and ready to go.
Me: Look at that! I remembered to make my lunch last night!
B: Oh yeah, it’s like, the first thing you did when we got home. You went straight for the refrigerator. I heard you rustling around out here while I was getting ready for bed. After you made your lunch, you were eating Tostito’s and cheese con queso* straight out of the jar. I passed out and when I woke up later to go puke you were still out here eating.
Me: Is that supposed to surprise me in any way?
*I know, I know, it's salsa con queso. But I think cheese con queso sounds much more appealing.
Comments
And I'm also the queen of drunk eating. Fantastic
True story: nothing tastes as good as it does after a few beers.