Packing and Beer Boots and Makeup, Oh My

Well, I’m all packed.

Sort of.

If it's on my bed and floor, does that count?

As you can see, the crisis has been averted.

We leave for vacation tomorrow. I'm so very excited to hang out with my husband and son, and spend some quality time with the rest of my sweet family. Quality time, of course, includes the long-awaited, battle of the sexes basketball match-up between my husband and R (my brother’s girlfriend), who is a total basketball pro. They have been smack-talking each other about this for nearly a year, ever since J bragged about how he took both of my brothers down in trampball last year. Which he totally did. (Trampball was the very safe and mature sport that we played, which combines the beauty and majesty of a big-ass trampoline with the simple poetry of basketball.)

I seriously don’t know who to bet on.

I also cannot wait to take Toopweets swimming, and of course, my heart longs for karaoke night to finally arrive. (Angella and Gorillabuns have requested a video; I don't know if the world is quite ready for my vocal stylings, but we'll see.)

I'm excited, yo.

Also exciting? This.

Telephone appears to give you perspective of the HUGENESS of the beer boot.

Yes, that is in fact Das Boot.

For anyone out there who did NOT see the cinematic masterpiece Beerfest (Oh, whatever. I laughed, and I don’t care who knows it!), Das Boot is one of the events in an international underground beer drinking competition in the movie. Said event involves a beer race, with the first man to finish his huge glass boot of beer winning the event. Naturally. I came home today to find that one had appeared on my dining room table as a gift from one of our friends. You know, to go along with our other classy barware (which I adore).

People.

We have an enormous glass beer boot. I don’t really know what to do with this information. Now, granted, I really don't drink all that much, but if you think I'm going to miss out on an opportunity like this, you're sadly mistaken.

The boot is coming with us to Pennsylvania.

Pictures to follow.

Oh, and speaking of which, I have no idea WHEN the pictures will follow, as I have no idea as to the wifi situation up in them thar mountains, and we’re going to be gone for a while.

This will consequently be a very long post, in the event this turns out to be a “real” blog break. (How will you live? HOW WILL YOU LIVE??) Moving along:

Heather B. was in NY yesterday, and we got together for lunch and a Sephora outing, where I snagged my ninety-zillionth free sample of Hope in a Jar. (Holly? Were you the one who got everyone started on this wondrous cream? If so, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.) Anyway, I think it’s a good thing that Heather and I don’t live closer, because we were terrible influences on each other with regard to the makeup purchases, by which I mean, we kept making the other buy stuff.

To wit: I convinced her to buy my favorite lip gloss, which looked beyond gorgeous on her, and she convinced me to buy a lip brush. You see, as I told her, each and every time I go to Sephora, I’m always tempted by the Cargo glosses, as the colors make me swoon, but the fact that they come in pots (bleh!) always turned me off. I mean, the fingers in the pots! The excess goop on your fingers! So unsanitary! And finger goopy! And so, after some minimal persuasion on her part, I am now the proud owner of a darling little lip brush. It’s all just very exciting.

Um, so now that I have this thing…what are some pretty lip gloss shades that come in pots? I’ve been a tube/stick girl for years. Hold me.

Since I’m asking you for recommendations, I think it’s only fair that I share with you my new love (also purchased yesterday), Smashbox’s Skin Tint, which I got in the Ultraviolet shade. (I’m linking to Sephora, because you can see the shades more accurately there, but I like Ulta’s description better: “Adds subtle, natural-looking color to cheeks and lips, making you appear ‘lit’ from within. Sheer enough to risk mirror-less application, this water-based stain stick contains vitamins A, C, E, aloe, and Echinacea to nourish skin while creating a flawlessly flushed face.”)

I absolutely adore this; I’m forever on the hunt for the perfect allover stick, but a lot of them tend to look very frosted. And while I do love the Golden Girls (especially Blanche, as I’ve mentioned before), their makeup is not something I strive to emulate. This stick is a lip and cheek stain, but it goes on smoothly, and is sheer, so you don’t have to do that frantic rubbing thing to make it blend in. And despite the sheerness, it lasts! It’s also not drying on the lips at all. I was telling my fellow makeup fiend Whoorl yesterday that my one caveat with this is that when I initially applied it, it looked a little Old French Whore. However, it faded to a natural, pretty flush within seconds, once blended. HIGHLY recommend.

Speaking of Old French Whores, I love this old SNL skit. (Hello, segues!)

Old French Whore!

I’ll leave you with this:

While packing tonight, I began sorting through our freshly laundered clothes that we just got back from the launder…ers? I was rooting around in one of the bags, and pulled out what I thought was this silky tank I have.

I was sadly mistaken.

Nail polish included to give perspective on the HUGE GRANNY PANTIES THAT ARE NOT MINE.

Whose granny panties are these?! Why are they in my laundry, touching my clothes?

*shudder*

*hurl*

On that lovely note, I’m off to Pennsylvania, and will catch up with you in either a few days, or after Labor Day, depending upon the wifi situation.

In either case, have a great rest-of-the summer!

Insert "Hair" Pun of Your Choice Here

My son has been blessed with some sort of crazy good hair gene. Thick, soft, lustrous…it’s ideal, really. His hair grows insanely fast, however, and we realized that once again, it had crossed that imperceptible line from sweet baby curls into Swayze mullet territory.

Not. Cool.

Which is how we found ourselves at the children’s haircutting place Friday afternoon for his fourth (fifth? I lost count.) haircut. This haircut, unfortunately, took place with a hairstylist who was kissing her own ass so intently, it was a wonder that she could even cut Tooweets’ hair properly.

Oh, wait; that’s right…she didn’t. Rather than ramble on about her ineptitude, I’ll just give you this brief pop quiz to determine your potential as a competent baby haircutter. Yes, you!

You’re cutting a fourteen-month-old boy’s hair. What do you use to neaten up the back?

A) A Christmas ham.

B) Loud, vibrating electric hair clippers which will scare the crap out of the child, causing him to jump, leaving a CRATER-SIZED chunk of precious baby hair carved out of the back of said child’s head.

C) Scissors. Perhaps the ones you’ve been using the entire time without incident.

Care to venture a guess at which option she chose? And whose child now has a quasi-"step" haircut, not unlike the style sported by Kid N' Play?

*Weeps*

Of course we still tipped her. We’re wusses like that.

I must admit that other than that, it came out okay, right? RIGHT?

Before:

During:

"Mom? Are you kidding me with this?"

After:

Saturday brought its own share of problems, which is why I was thrilled beyond words to attend our friend's wedding on Sunday. I love weddings in general, but especially now that our nights out are few and far between, I relish the opportunity to put on a pretty dress and spend more than 30 seconds on my makeup. (Seriously, my harried mornings compelled me to get this down to a science.) Oh, and to carry a teensy, impractical bag that’s only big enough for one lip gloss and a place card, but NOTHING MORE.

The wedding was lovely, as was this:

This, in case you were wondering, is an enormous ice sculpture which dispenses Cosmos through a little spigot in the front. Suck it, pimp cup! Hit the road, pimp and ho shot glasses! Mama found a new favorite beverage dispenser! If only I still liked Cosmos...and ice didn't, um, MELT.

Other than that, all is well, and I'm anxiously counting down the minutes until we leave for vacation later this week. We'll be at the annual Metalia family pilgrimage to the lake house in Pennsylvania with my parents and brothers, where we will eat, drink, and almost certainly be merry. How could we not, with the karaoke bar so close to the house? I secretly wait for this every year, and am not-so-secretly crafting my setlist already. (Gorillabuns, I'm saving a spot on that stage for you.)

Send Help.

You know, the evening started off wonderfully.

Toopweets had a particularly raucous playdate, and then fell quickly asleep. Billy Madison was on, as was Clueless, and I'm not ashamed to say that I still love both of those movies; that shit's funny. We watched, we laughed. Delicious new beer may have been consumed.

I then started to work on a nostalgic post about favorite childhood books (inspired by the lovely Guinness Girl sending me her All of A Kind Family books), but then decided that I should perhaps use my time to finish planning my outfit for the wedding we'll be attending tomorrow.

And then.

After surveying my shoe selection in a final attempt to decide between black or gold shoes (many thanks to my fellow Twitterers for their advice yesterday!) all hell broke loose.

The shoe bars in my closet? Holding up my many pairs of shoes? COLLAPSED. Only one bar remained standing.

Do you see this?

IT PHYSICALLY PAINS ME TO LOOK AT IT.

If anyone needs me, I'll be attempting to return order to this chaos. While weeping. Softly.

In the meantime, please enjoy the video below. Schnozz reminded me of its existence the other night, and if it can put a smile on my face right now, then surely it can be enjoyed by people who don't, at present, have 4-inch heels digging into their bootays:

The Quintessence of Refined Elegance (AKA, My New Pimp Cup)

I’ve always had a thing for pimps.

Um, let me back up. A lot.

I’m not into REAL pimps, but rather, I’ve just always found the whole furry hat, goldfish-in-the-platform-shoes, neon green suit thing utterly hilarious.

Then again, I’m easily entertained.

We spotted this in someone's car almost 6 months ago, and I still occasionally click on the picture and giggle:

Like I said…easily entertained.

And so imagine my utter delight today when I discovered that circumstances had once again brought laughably cheesy pimp paraphernalia into my life.

By way of background, J has, in short, the most fun job ever. He works in intellectual property licensing, and as such, his business brings him to many trade shows where clients GIVE HIM FREE STUFF AND SAMPLES OMG I LOVE FREE THINGS SOMEONE HELP.

[Hyperventilates into paper bag.]

He came home from one such trade show today with a bag of stuff. Let’s begin with the bag itself, shall we? It bears a relevant and powerful message:

Uh, isn’t your..."thing" sort of attached to your body? I guess you could try to carry it, but wouldn’t you look odd? I secretly wanted to use the bag, but J discouraged me, telling me that while lugging it through the train terminal, a weird man approached him and told him to "Carry [his] thing proud." So, um, maybe I won't take the bag. Any takers? ;)

And now for the bag’s contents; I will concede that it did contain a great many useful and practical items, but c’mon; that’s boring. There were, however, a few simply awesome things that I must discuss...

...Like the pimp cup.

God bless J, he does know me well. I daresay I reacted the same way upon seeing the pimp cup as I do when he gives me fine jewelry. That is to say, gleeful. (Thanks, love!)

Carrying on my proud tradition of photographing Toopweets in pictures he will hate me for in 15 years (“T, honey! Don’t be mad! Ari Gold was a really cool character from Entourage back in the day! So was Turtle! Hey, give me back my car keys!"), please feast your eyes on this:

This was actually a huge mistake, because it instantly became his new favorite toy, and really, how do I explain that to people? Must. Hide. Pimp. Cup. Still in the running for Mom of the Year!

The next items were equally awesome; I mean, when you try to think of something that epitomizes refined, understated elegance, what image pops into your mind? Is it perhaps…this?

It just doesn’t get any more sophisticated than "his & hers" bedazzled pimp/ho shot glasses. It can't! It’s scientifically impossible. Sigh...I think I love them.

I tried to not-so-subtly class up the glasses (or “shooterz,” according to the package) by placing them atop some intelligent reading material. But then, as the evening wore on and we put the baby to sleep, the hypnotic lure of the shooterz proved to be too great: We decided that the only thing to do (naturally) was to actually drink from them, and…well, you’ll see. The trashiness factor of the shot glasses is so high that even being in their proximity literally causes you and everything around you to devolve. You can’t see us in the picture, but trust me when I tell you that, mysteriously, I am in a sundress and clear plastic heels, and J is wearing manpris and Federline-esque sneakers:

Staged? Whuh? I don't know what you're talking about.

I think there were more items that I wanted to talk about, but Us Weekly isn’t reading itself, and I have to go finish eating these cheese curls.

Peace, yo. (Schnozz, that was for you.)

A Day of Firsts, and a Guest Post (Of Sorts)

May I confess something? I occasionally fear that you guys read some of my posts and wonder if I’m exaggerating certain things. But the thing is, the air marshals? The Worst Date Ever? My runaway skirt? IT ALL REALLY HAPPENED. And in point of fact, one of the very reasons I started this blog was to stop harassing my close friends and loved ones with my lengthy emails detailing these types of bizarre occurrences. Anyway, I come before you once again with a tale of utter weirdness, but this time, I have a special guest to corroborate my story: My husband, J! He'll be helping out with this post; his comments appear in italics throughout. He's very excited about this, so be nice. ;)

Earlier today, J, Toopweets and I were taking a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. We walked past the park and, after pushing T on the swing for approximately nine hundred years, decided to head home. We made our way out to the street, where a large family was walking ahead of us. J and I smiled at each other, watching the kids all chattering happily together.

It was then that we noticed that two of the boys in the group were wearing only their underpants.

Mind you, they were not toddlers. They had to be AT LEAST between 7 and 9.

J: First of all, this is completely accurate. And can I just tell you all, the whole thing was very, very weird. Made weirder still by the t-shirt that the father--

Dammit, J! That’s the best part!

Anyway, J and I then had a brief but memorable ESP-type conversation, which essentially amounted to: “Hey! Why are there children walking down a major thoroughfare in their underwear? And what should we do for dinner? Also, should we go to Florida or California for our next vacation?” (Impressive, no? We’ve been married a while; you get good at these sorts of things over time.) We walked a bit closer to get a better sense of what was going on.

Yup. Two pre-adolescent boys walking down the street in their tighty-whiteys and Crocs. (Hello, pervert Googlers!) Mind you, they'd all just come out of the park, too. Nothing like chilling at the park in your ratty underwear in 90-degree weather. [J: Also, to be accurate, Metalia? Their underwear was tighty, but it was NOT uh, whitey. I wouldn't be parading myself around town in those dingy things.] Perplexing us further, the rest of the family (which included a father, a mother, an older brother, and a few girls) was wholly clothed. The father, however, was wearing a shirt which bore the message “National Underwear Day” on the back.

Naturally, I couldn’t wait to get home to research this event. We learned that “National Underwear Day is an event that evokes the care-free attitude of Sixties ‘happenings’ when free spirits took control of public spaces as a venue for their art, their message.” (National Underwear Day, in case you were interested, took place this year on August 7^th.)

Um, WTF?

I’m at a total loss here. So much so that I can’t properly form my numerous questions. J, help me out here.

J: No problem; I think what you’re trying to get at is this: Why was this family parading around with two half-clothed children? Were they actually celebrating National Underwear Day? If so, were they aware that they were nearly a week late? And if they were celebrating it late, why would they only have two of the kids in their underwear? What about the dad who was actually wearing the National Underwear Day shirt? Why was he not in his underwear? And regardless, isn’t the whole thing really inappropriate for children? Also, why do you leave your wet towel on my side of the bed?

Not funny, J! (But otherwise very well done; you covered all of my questions.)

Each and every time I think that living in New York has shown us everything that there possibly is to see in the way of weirdos, there’s always another situation to prove me wrong.

(J: Don't forget about those identically dressed old lady twins that live here!

Oh yeah! I forgot about them.)

Perplexed though I was by this National Underwear Day situation, I couldn’t dwell on it for too long, because we had to go buy Toopweets his first pair of shoes today. I keep saying things like, "He's a real boy now!" but that just makes him seem like he was Pinocchio before, so I'll refrain, and just say this: He's getting big awfully quickly.

In a brilliant move on my part, I totally forgot to bring socks for him. On our trip to get him shoes.

I’m a clever, clever girl.

Here he is, wearing the new socks we had to get at the store, and trying on shoes:

We did not end up getting those shoes, however, due to the Frankenstein-esque quality they imparted. See below:

Update: Stefanie and Liz just pointed out in their comments that I hadn't initially included a picture of the shoes we ultimately bought. Happy to oblige; they match pretty much everything he owns, and I think they're cute, but then again, I'm not so well-versed in toddler shoes:

Toopweets was very patient throughout the whole process, due in no small part to this genius diversion:

Hello, my little clone baby.

We ultimately picked a pair that both fit well and looked cute (surprisingly harder than you’d think), and celebrated with ice cream...

And sideways head tilting in my in-laws' living room. Because that's just how we roll:

And how was your weekend? Did any of you happen to spot any National Underwear Day devotees, or are we the only "lucky" ones?

Finally! The Post That Covers Both Sleeping Babies AND College Perverts

As I was on my way out the door yesterday morning, I decided to first check in on my still-sleeping son. I opened the door a smidge, and peered down lovingly at my slumbering baby. The sun’s rays were just beginning to creep through the blinds, and the whole room was basked in a warm glow. And that's when I made the foolhardy decision to push the door open a bit more. It creaked. Loudly. T’s eyes popped open, and he began to roll over.

I panicked, and in the resultant mad dash to get the hell out of there before he saw me and really woke up, I evidently forgot that I hadn’t opened the door all the way…and proceeded to smash my left cheekbone into the doorframe. Because I am cool. And extremely coordinated.

The pain instinctively caused me to whisper/shout “SHHHHIIIIIT!,” which, of course, roused him. Nothing like waking up your sleeping child with profanity to get the day started off right, and really give you that push you’ve been needing to throw your hat in the ring for Mother of the Year.

The doorframe, by the way, is apparently made of titanium, diamonds, and/or Superman, because, DUDE. My face is busted. I look like I should be on a Lifetime Original Movie (entitled It Wasn’t Really the Doorframe: The Metalia Jones Story), or on Jerry Springer, shouting at the crowd, “All y’all haters can STEP! He loves me!” (And then, you know, stripping without provocation, thus causing my allegedly abusive boyfriend AND the busty she-male prostitute with whom I’m cheating to fight.)

I’ve consequently spent the better part of the past few days explaining the damage to the side of my face. One of the people to whom I had to explain this injury is an old friend, who I’ve known forever, and who, fortunately, knows all about me and my klutzy ways. She then launched into her Worst Date Ever story, which involved the guy accidentally elbowing her in the mouth, causing her to have a split lip. And this was after the CAR ACCIDENT that they got into earlier that night. Seriously.

While I couldn’t compete with that, the discussion did remind me of my own Worst Date Ever story, which, looking back? I can’t believe I haven’t already discussed here. Some of my "real life" friends will definitely remember this one:

I was in college, and I’d been helping a friend of mine study for a final. His friend “Dick” stopped by the apartment, and we all sat around talking. The next day, my friend told me that Dick wanted the three of us to grab dinner that night. Okay.

I had needed a haircut anyway, and the evening out was just the impetus I needed to get one. Only at that time, I lived in a part of Manhattan where it was not at all uncommon for the base price of a haircut to be well into the triple digits, and require you to sign over some vital organs and/or firstborn child, as well. So…I went to Supercuts, because that’s where you go when you really want to look your best. I should point out that it was January, and Supercuts, after giving me the shoddiest, fugliest haircut in all the land, CHARGED EXTRA FOR BLOWDRYING. Being a frugal college student, I declined, and went out into the frigid winter night with my dripping, hedge-clippered hair.

By the time I returned home, my hair had dried into chunks that resembled the mop on the head of Adam Duritz (of Counting Crows fame).

It really looked very much like this. Only longer, and more uneven. "Mr. Jooooooooones and me..."

Of course, it was too late to do anything, because it was dinner time! I headed over to my friend’s apartment, and somehow, he weaseled out of the dinner plans, and suggested that Dick and I just go ourselves. It dawned upon me that the whole thing had been a ruse, set up by Dick, to get me out on a date. (Which? Just ask ME. Sure, I would’ve said no, but still!)

I was still sort of in shock as to how this whole thing had come about, and Dick and I headed out into the night. We got into his car, and he said, “I can’t wait to cook for you!” I knew he lived nearby, so became a bit concerned when we crossed over the bridge into New Jersey. I asked him where, exactly, he’d be cooking for me, and he told me he was taking me to his parents’ home.

Whuh?

We then drove for an HOUR AND A HALF. Now, 2007 Metalia would have said, “Hell no, sucka!” and cut things short right then, but this was almost 10 years ago, and I was younger, and infinitely dumber.

Finally, we arrived at the house, and his entire family was home. I think his brother was secretly mocking my clumpy hair. His mom came out and showed us a modified yoga/dance routine that she'd just learned, while I kept a Stepford-esque smile plastered on my face, the likes of which you’ve never before seen. I just kept thinking, “How did I get here? What’s going on? Is he a serial killer? Am I going to be on Dateline?”

He cooked me dinner, which was not at all awkward, considering we’d just met the day before, and I’d basically been ambushed into this date. His family retreated, and we went into the den so he could play guitar for me.

Now, a question for all you ladies out there.

What do you do when a guy is playing guitar for you? I've never figured this out.

Do you look at him?

Or the guitar?

Do you applaud politely?

But perhaps most importantly, what would you do if some dude who you do not like in any way and who you JUST MET started singing and playing an original composition entitled (misspelled so as to deter Google perverts): “Plessure Me Orilly”?

NO REALLY.

I’d like to know.

Because after I nearly vomited in terror, I told him to drive me back immediately. (I know, I know, but I had no money for a cab!) I called my roommate, and stayed on the phone with her the whole time so I didn’t have to talk to Dick.

Oh, and Dick (living up to his pseudonym after the evening didn’t go as he’d planned), refused to drive me back to NYC, and instead dropped me off at my parents’ house in NJ. You know what’s fun? Explaining to your parents (in very vague terms) why you randomly appeared on their doorstep at 11 pm on a random weeknight when you live in another state.

I have no idea how I got from the start of this post to here, but whatever; there you have it; my worst date ever. (Made infinitely worse by the fact that I was technically never even informed that it was, in fact, a date. Sneaky bastard.) What about you? What was your worst date?

(P.S. -- J? Retelling this story made me love you that much more. As a token of my appreciation, I’ll clean out the fridge tomorrow. FOR REAL THIS TIME. The chicken from 3 weeks ago and the old-ass broccoli have evolved into higher life forms, and are developing cognitive thought. I suspect that they are conspiring to stage a coup.)

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

I’m a little sleep-deprived, so I apologize in advance for what will likely be a brief and inarticulate post. The reason for my current state is nothing bad, mind you.

It’s just that…well, Toopweets cut two teeth, said three new words, and learned to walk, all in the space of twenty-four hours.

Toopweets' subtitles: "Dog dog! Dog dog! Hooray! Hi!" And please note: In real life, I don't actually speak the way I do here. That's my supa special, high-pitched "I'm speaking to a baby" voice. You like?

This whole “baby” thing?

It’s going too fast.

In point of fact, one could say that I don’t even have a baby now, but a toddler. Who is toddling. Everywhere. In a now-bipedal fashion.

Do they have pause buttons? Or something?

Because (aside from all the usual, sappy mom reasons) if the following video is any indication, I’m actually quite scared of the next milestone.

(The link won't embed properly here, but you MUST go check it out. Credit for the find goes to my friend Ari.)

These Are a Few of My Favorite (Cheap) Things

Last week, while I was drinking delicious beer with some lovely fellow bloggers acting all adult-like at the BlogHer conference in Chicago, I received a lovely email from someone who has asked to remain anonymous.

“Dear Metalia,” she wrote, “I like when you review products and makeup, but can you do some reviews of some cheaper things?”

After checking with J to see if he’d created a new email address and sent this message to me in an attempt to curb my raging Sephora habit (It’s ACROSS THE STREET from my office. I’m not made of stone, you know!), I looked back through my makeup reviews, and realized that the emailer was correct. I have been primarily reviewing Sephora purchases lately, likely due to its proximity. (Rite Aid is, like, three whole blocks away, people.)

First of all, emailer, thank you so much for essentially giving me a post topic. Secondly, her point is well-taken, because the stuff I’ve been reviewing lately is not representative of the contents of my makeup bag as a whole. For you see, I’m an equal opportunity makeup/product whore. I don’t care how much it costs, or who makes it; if I like it, I buy it. So I say it’s time for reviews of some of my favorite cheaper products.

Now, before I begin…at BlogHer last week, I attended a session where some women raised the subject of blogging about product reviews, and getting paid for them. I perceived the general sentiment as equating this activity with devil worship. Or something. I don’t know. At the time, I was all, “Whuh? Who cares one way or the other? Now how did I get this gum on the ass of my pants? And where can I get more free stuff?”

True (and fascinating) story.

My point here is that nobody is paying me to review anything. Ordinarily, I’d never have even thought to announce that, but the aforementioned discussion at the session somehow compels me to mention it. (And also let you know that the gum was successfully removed from my pants, and I did, in fact, obtain more free stuff. )

On with the show! In no particular order, here are my very favorite beauty products under $10 (all prices are estimated):

Sephora Professionel Most Complete Lip Balm -$2

I’ve shared my love of this balm with a few of my fellow lipgloss hos. This is the most fantastic lip balm ever. So great, in fact, that I have foregone my customary “no pots” policy for it. It’s heavy-duty, but not too thick, and is slightly tingly with a subtle vanilla flavor. Love this.

Johnson & Johnson Soothing Naturals Soothe and Protect Balm Stick -$5

You know, if you were to ask me “Metalia, what surprised you most about having a baby?” I would answer you thusly: “The amount of stuff you can steal from them.”

Oh, don’t call Child Services; I’ll explain.

Upon having a child, I wasn’t surprised by my love for the little guy, or the amount of time and energy one expends by caring for a baby; I kind of expected all of that. What did take me by surprise, however, was the fact that there are AWESOME products out there, ostensibly intended for my son, but that I have since co-opted for my own use.

My favorite of these items, by far, is this multi-purpose stick. It soothes lips, gives a pretty sheen to cheeks, kicks the proverbial ass of dry patches, and smells purty. And the package is so cute; it’s like a tiny little deodorant!

OH.

Speaking of which?

You know what I DON’T love? This new deodorant that I recently tried. The logo of said deodorant is commonly known as the bird of peace, but I experienced no such peace upon trying this product, so instead, I shall call it Pigeon. Because we all know how much I love those birds. Anyway, I applied the Pigeon deodorant, in a scent called Smooth Cashmere. (Which, by the way? Befuddles me to no end. Unless it was left out in the rain and hidden in the back of a dank closet for three months, how would cashmere have a scent?) On the subway a mere hour later, I had the following internal monologue:

“Ooh, Arcade Fire! Rock on, iPod. What am I going to get for breakfast? Clearly a bagel of some sort, but what--HOLY HELL! What is that stench? Did a stinky dude get on at the last station? [Looks around; sniffs.] Oh, Lord. It’s me. I'm the smelly person on the train. I AM THE SMELLY PERSON ON THE TRAIN! Whatever will become of me?!”

It seems that the Smooth Cashmere scent of Pigeon-brand deodorant had somehow downgraded to Hobo Crotch.

Might I add that I generally do not stink? And that this deodorant not only failed to complete its intended role, but actively made me reek?

Suck it, Pigeon deodorant.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Stuff I actually like:

Skin Milk Facial Moisturizer $6

It’s in a tiny milk bottle! It’s a wonderful moisturizer! It smells divine! What more do you need to know?

E.l.f. All Over Color Stick $1

This stuff is awesome. I have it in the Persimmon shade, and generally use it as either an eyeshadow or blush. Go online, find the color that’s right for you, and buy it. IT’S A DOLLAR, PEOPLE.

Neutrogena MoistureShine Lip Soother - $7

C'mon, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my favorite lip gloss under $10, right?

I have this in a shade called “Glaze,” which I’ve recommended to a number of friends, and it appears (so far, at least) to be universally flattering. It’s very sheer, and shiny without being sticky. Oh, and it has SPF 20. Pretty and sun-smart. :)

So, people.

What are your favorite beauty bargains? I NEED TO KNOW.

And don't you love how I pose important (to me) questions like this in the middle of the weekend, when the internets are, for all intents and purposes, dead? My timing, it is impeccable.