Category: what price beauty

When being thrifty throws you into the wayback machine

So I was at Target the other day, picking up many items on my household list.

You know, toilet paper, dish soap, etc.

On my list was a need for some new razors. You know, the weather is warming up a bit, might need to take a weed whacker to the ol’ winter legs…

TMI, I know.

So anyhow…razors are expensive! Dang expensive. So being a child of depression era parents, I did what any overly fiscally conservative girl would do.

I grabbed a pack of razors from the clearance bin.

Hey, they are Schick Xtreme 3! That’s a good brand!

So tonight, I decided to take a long soak in a bath after a chilly rainy day, and I broke out one of my new razors to get some smooth skin happenin’.

Suddenly, my bathroom smells like Louie’s Backyard on South Padre Island at the high tide of Spring Break.

You know, that odd chemically tropical combination of Malibu spiced rum and way too much Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil?

Yeah.

That’s weird.

Why does my bathroom smell like that?

Turns out the clearance rack razors come with “Scented Handles by Hawaiian Tropic”.

Ew.

Apparently I’m not the only one that thinks a scented handle on my razor is weird. Hence the very deep discount in the clearance bin. Schick’s weird marketing idea is my gain!

With three, count them, three blades, my legs are super smooth.

Spotty memories are but a small down payment on the steep price of beauty.

I have the powa!

Watch out for me. I am potent. I have powers even I don’t understand.

The power of mah mind.

Oh yes.

See, on Monday, I went for a walk over at the Stanford Dish, a pretty grueling up and down hilly walk that knocks the wind out of me and makes me sweat. Generally The Dish humbles me very much.

It’s hard for me to complete the Dish. It takes effort. A lot of effort.

On Monday, I had to stop five times during the journey to catch my breath. It’s embarrassing.

Exercising at The Dish is rather popular with the beautiful and healthy people of the surrounding Palo Alto area (home to Stanford University, rich AND smart people), so as I go schlumping along, I often encounter blond, beautiful and much more attractive than me-type people.

So, there I was on Monday, a nice day, walking along in my old faded yoga pants, a loose shirt and a grimace. I’d already wheezed up the first hill and made my first stop as my lungs were burning.

But damnit man, I was *doing* it.

As I continued to walk at an ok pace, I was passed by a young man wearing one of those shiny new tight, moisture wicking, Nike logo emblazoned shirts. He’d paired this with fancy running shorts, sparkling white shoes, fresh iPod strapped to his arm and the perfect runners stance. Hell, he didn’t even have the rictus you see on the face of most joggers.

No. He was a blond chiseled sample of running perfection. Elbows bent at the perfect angle, strides the right distance. All perfect. He passed me (wide, middle aged, out of shape) with a snotty air and as he cruised past me, he gave two dye job blondes with store bought boobies a long, meaningful look.

Ok, I’m not too proud to admit it. I got snarky. In my head.

“Loser! I hope you trip and fall! I hope you get a cramp in your leg! I hope you gas out on the next hill!” I thought to myself.

Then he was gone over the next rise and it was me and the Bee Gees on my iPod shuffle. And another hill to climb.

So I trudged along.

Fifteen minutes later, I caught up to the guy.

He’d gassed out. He was walking. Slowly. I passed him. I didn’t even look his way. I just kept walking. Smugly.

Later, I encountered a woman who was really pert and fit. She was walking ahead of me on a hill where I had to stop twice. She stopped not at all.

“Well aren’t YOU so fit!” I thought in my tacky brain. “Bite me! Just….oooh, I hope you get tired! Oh no, you are soooo healthy!”

And when I finally got to the top of the hill, guess who I found standing there, breathing hard?

She’d made it all the way up the hill, but then had to stop.

I passed her too.

Oh the mind power of a snarky out of shape girl with determination on her mind!

I smited them down!

Or…maybe…The Dish is just a really challenging route.

You know, I always thought that whole tortoise and the hare story was a bunch of bollocks. A story told to slow pokes like me to engender some sort of hope.

But maybe…just maybe, there is some truth to that fable?

Time changes things

This morning when I arrived at work, the elevator doors slid open quietly, and from the car emerged a very pretty young girl wearing these *really* adorable gray Louboutin or Blahnik or some such with a very tall heel.

She lurched forward, took a step on the marble floor, her ankle gave way, she stumbled, got her balance back, and then galumphed with a clack clack sound the rest of the way out and into the foyer.

And I thought to myself: Rookie!

Terrible, I know. But really, if you are going to wear the heels, you oughta know how to walk in them.

In my mother’s day, they wore three to four inch stilettos every single day! And those women could walk a mile in those things. Hell, many women of that era got to the point they couldn’t even put their heels flat on the floor anymore, so used to wearing high heels were their legs and tendons.

Even that bastion of shoe goddessness, Carrie Bradshaw, knew how to walk in her way in overpriced but delicious shoes. C’mon girls! If ya gonna wear ’em, wear ’em well!

Then I realized that all these thoughts are all kind of ironic, because over the weekend, I was out shopping. I stopped at the shoe department for a look-see. I was drawn to the rack of comfy, padded, mostly flat shoes.

And I thought to myself: At what point did I migrate over to comfortable shoes only? Did I consent to this?

In defiance of myself, I tried on a really cute pair of heels. I walked around in them (no rookie, me), then was like “eh. Why?” Ripped them off, put my comfy shoes back on, and kept shopping. For something with a waistband that’s not too binding.

edit: Good lord…I’ve had these thoughts before. Same outcome. Really, this whole shoe issue is plaguing me on a deep level. I need help. Retail therapy at least!

This is so me

Do you ever have those moments in life where something happens that is just *so* quintessentially you? I mean, you can’t deny it, just has “that’s totally me” written ALL over it.

This happened last evening when I came home from work. I found two packages waiting for me. Items I’d ordered separately had managed to arrive on the same day.

And it was Karen-day a’go-go.

The first item opened was this:

It’s *fabulous*. A pretty pink CZ sparkler of a cocktail ring. I loooove cocktail style rings, the bigger, brassier and more obnoxious the better. Yes! I’ll wear the rings others will eschew as “too big.”

Plus! I got this one on a killer deal. I mean, an amazing sale at an already discounted site! This thing is full of fire and pizzazz and I totally have the outfit to wear it with this weekend.

Total girl-type “squee!” action when I opened this up and slipped it on and it winked at me and fit perfectly.

So satisfying.

Then, ready to move on, I opened the other package. And it was this:

That there’s my new Buck knife. Not the first Buck knife to come into my possession, only the latest. I bought one of this same model (in gray) for The Good Man a couple birthdays ago, and have been lusting for it since. Compact, fits into that 5th pocket you got in your jeans. Small but powerful blade. Love. It!

Plus, got it in rockin’ red! Oh yeah, baby!

And as I sat there, giddy, with my new pink ring in one hand and my new Buck knife in the other, my loving husband remarked, “That’s my girl!”

That’s just Karen being Karen.

Got to fix my thinkin’

You are only as old as you feel….or so they say.

I got to work on this, because, last weekend…

I tried on these hot kicks:

The style is VERY of the now.

And as I clomped about the store, I thought, “hmmm, I wonder if these will make my bunions hurt?”

So I put them back on the shelf, slid my toes into well worn flip flops, and left the store.

I remember when I’d wear dreadfully uncomfortable shoes for hours, just because they looked DAMN good. What price beauty and all of that.

But now I’m about comfort?

Oh dear. Have I succumbed? Am I going gentle into that good night…..?

Fight!

Or take a nap. Whatever.