Makeup test: Urban Decay Primer Potion

Today was my job hunting day. I dolled myself up, put on my second best push-up bra (the best was in the wash), and printed about a bazillion copies of my resume. I sprizted on my Juicy Couture Viva la Juicy (fresh, fruity, makes me feel like an adorable, coquettish girl with a hint of sex. Beyonce's Heat, which is my clubbing scent, felt a little too sexy, and therefore rather inappropriate), rolled on my deodorant, and applied makeup.
I followed the standard steps, primer, concealer, foundation, blush. But my face is really not where I shine, makeup wise. It's my eyes. And what good is all the eyeshadow in the world if it creases up? I don't know, and I can say that from experience. However I found Jesus in a bottle. It's called Urban Decay's Primer Potion and it's been out on the market for about a century, so I'm sorry for being so late on the bandwagon. Unfortunately the first couple of times I used it it didn't work. Today, for some reason though, it worked. My eyeshadow hasn't creased or moved yet, and I put it on at 8 this morning (that means it's now 9 hours and counting). It even kept my liquid eyeliner from flaking, for which I praise the gods. Or maybe that demon I sacrificed those 24 virgins to. Either way my Primer Potion did it's job to help me get a job so I applaud the power of positive thought.
For anyone who is looking for an eye primer, I have found your option. You can get a lot of mileage out of one bottle, but it costs your first-born child, so be aware of that. Also Urban Decay eyeshadows are great. I layered them on top of the UD primer, so maybe that was actually it. Keeping all of my products within the same company. It wasn't those 24 virgins. I guess I should start work on an apology.

This is my face. That is my makeup. I had on lip color, but it wore off. Don't look at the Beanie Baby in the background. Yes, this really is my room.

Tanner Foust and my inability to flirt

As a follow up to my earlier post about Tanner Foust, here are some shots of the lovely man himself, looking pensive and serious, shot in very deep black and white. Because that's the one adjective you can clearly apply to him. Deep. Or at least you can apply it to me. 

And an adorable Instagram picture he tweeted. Why is he so cute?

I won't apologize for my complete lack of shame. I'm not sorry. But look at me. Look at my life, look at my choices. Maybe he'll stop by Firebird Raceway sometime soon and I can abduct him meet him. That would be nice. He'll be charmed by me and my coquettish ways. I'll bat my eyelashes and twirl my fan around and maybe let him get a peek at my ankles. Because I can't flirt. If I lived in a Jane Austen novel or it was the early 1900's, I might be able to snag a man. Unfortunately I am not, and a woman's ability to catch a husband no longer rests with her ability to dance, smile and, in my opinion most importantly, have a good grasp of society, art, music, and the running of a large estate. 

Now, and even then, it's based on whether or not her boobs look good shoved nearly up her nostrils. But unlike then, a woman is found attractive if she isn't as smart. No longer is emphasis placed on knowledge. Glittering generalities, or do those awful blonde jokes have a grain of truth to them?

My argument is bolstered by the my father. Every once in a while when I'm creeping on the popular chicks in my school on Facebook (never in person), he'll pop up behind me and make awkward comments like "oh, she's cute." When I lament the fact that God is unfair and despite her having a small waist and a pair of 36Ds, she's as dumb as a post, Dad goes, "no, no, that's all right. Dumb is good." I give him my best "shocked and appalled" face, but he won't be chastised by me. 

My observations are also helped along by the amount of teen relationships in my school. Dare we notice who they are all between? The cliche jock and cheerleader/dancer? No! Say it isn't so! The hot guy, who himself is low on the brain wattage, picks the dyed blonde who wear his two favorite colors, short and tight? She laughs at all of his horrendously awful jokes and constantly tells him "I love you, baby, you're my everything." Oh horror! It's true!

Ergo, the best way for me to pick up dudes is to do a complete 180 on my personality and appearance. 

Thankfully for me and the rest of the downtrodden female population, deliverance is upon us. We just need more mature men! So far my mother's wise words have been repeated by such reputable sources as Jim Belushi and my best friend's parents. Men don't mentally mature past 8 years of age until they hit about 35-45 years old. Sad, but true. 

However my baby Tanner Foust is 38 years old (June 13, 1973, if anybody cares), so I think that he and I will get along perfectly. I'd better work on my giggle though. 

My Reality Check on Men

Nobody gives me more flak over the men I choose to like than my little brother.
Case in point: Having recently begun watching the US version of Top Gear, I have been reminded of how much I like Tanner Foust. I kept it on the DL before this, but as of late I've been pretty out and proud with my various celebrity crushes.
Today my touching but sad crush on Mr. Foust was called into question by my younger brother, who at the ripe age of 11 has seemingly deemed himself the ultimate expert on men in general, specifically on how terrible the men I choose to like are. The only time he can put together a good joke is when he's making fun of me (and understand that my brother is one of those people who try very hard to be funny but just aren't, and come off as irritating and slightly pathetic). I was verbally patting myself on the back, loudly, about how good my boards are on Pinterest, and the family stopped by to investigate. One of my boards centers around guys who I find physically appealing, and so, naturally, there are several pins of Tanner on there. My brother noticed this (how could he not?) and began his usual commentary.
"Ew, you like him? He's how old?" (38 years of age, thank you very much. I'm still down) "He's going to be so old by the time you marry him. Like, fifty. He'll have wrinkles. You'll kiss him and his jaw will fall off." Here he continues in a wizened voice (and began to mime a man with a walker) "Honey, will you help me into bed?" Then continued his diatribe in a normal tone, "Hahaha, you won't have kids together. All your money will be spent on one of those chairs that moves him up the stairs," and on and on ad nauseam, until I started hollering at my mother to make him stop.
It was continued throughout the day, being brought up when Mom voiced concerns about Tanner's height (the internet says he's 5'10" which Mom countered with, "that means in real life he's about 5' 6", honey") and later on as I questioned my own ability to park (quickly answered with a snarky "will Tanner have to teach you how to drive?").
I was not unaware of my brother's negativity up to this point, far from it. These not-so-subtle put-downs about the men I like have been happening to me for quite some time. And no celebrity of mine is immune to my brother's disdain towards them, for no apparent reason. It's happened to Tom Hiddleston, Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr. and best of all, my one and only Benedict Cumberbatch. No one is safe.