Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: Cosmetics

True Confessions

{Note: There was originally a line here that I edited out, and I can’t figure out how to make the white space go away, so I substituted this line in its place. Carry on.} {Yeah, I know this is more than one line, but I care insufficiently to do anything about it. Proceed.}


On the Anonymously Autistic blog, where I’ve been loitering lately, I found the official diagnostic definition here. (<== Look! Did you see that? I made a link! My first ever! This Blog School is turning out to be worthwhile after all! Maybe I better restrain my enthusiasm until I publish this and see if it actually works.) Leaving aside the obsessive way in which I carefully checked off each of the listed attributes and rated them for level of severity, I think I can put your doubts to rest with two simple observations:

  1. I rock back and forth when I listen to music. They call this “self-soothing” behavior, which I originally took issue with, thinking, “How would I feel if I didn’t do it? Oh–nervous and twitchy. OK.”
  2. As I walk along {“I wonder what went wrong, with our love, the love that was so strong…” Sorry. Too much listening to music.}, I often recite sequential lists of dates. I will not bore you with how these dates are selected.
  3. OK, make that 3 observations: I have difficulty recognizing people’s faces if I encounter them outside of their accustomed settings–colleagues outside of work, parishioners outside of church, Nick pretty much everywhere, etc. (I worked with that poor thing IN THE SAME ROOM, ON THE SAME SHIFT, FOR A YEAR–or so he claims–and don’t remember it.) My husband is the only exception. So if you run into me at Walgreen’s, or follow me down the street in your vehicle hoping to give me a ride, expect a blank stare initially. The only way to avoid that is to live with me for years. No, I’m not inviting you to move in.

Where the “high-functioning” thing (or maybe just “maturity”) comes in is, I’ve learned to not display my weirder traits in public, and I’ve also mastered Life Skills 101 (although I’m not sure about Life Skills 201). For example, not knowing how to dress properly got me in trouble at 3 different jobs. Since there were no dress codes to tell me exactly how to proceed, I just wore what I did when I wasn’t working. Back then, that involved lots of see-through shirts, halter tops, and black goth-y stuff that hadn’t yet become fashionable. So one supervisor told me, “Just because there’s no dress code doesn’t mean you can wear whatever you want.” See, I’d thought that was exactly what it meant. The “obvious” alternative–looking around to see what other employees were wearing–simply never occurred to me. How did I eventually discover that tactic? I read it in an article. Combine that sort of thing with my belief that making sustained eye contact with anyone will turn me to stone, and you can see why employers used to edge me out as soon as they could figure a way that wouldn’t involve paying me unemployment benefits.

Along with Life Skills, a structured and/or familiar environment helps a great deal, so I know just what to expect. I also have various Rules, so I don’t take forever to make decisions like, Where should I sit on this bus? What color underwear should I put on today? (Although I actually make those particular decisions in the reverse order from the way I just listed them.) (You know, it JUST OCCURRED TO ME that I could solve that one problem by just buying all-white underwear. You learn something new every day!)

Also, here (again from Anonymously Autistic) is an example of how one can “build” small talk “from the ground up,” so to speak.

Well, that was somewhat embarrassing, but I’ll live. Enough about me and why I’m weird. I’ve already dawdled over this post for too long, afflicted with “but what if they don’t want to read about my problems?” Well, if you don’t want to read about my problems, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG PLACE.


I have scratchy glitter on me from carrying Christmas packages. This is not optimum.


I’m happy because I discovered rose-scented Vaseline for my lips.


“Real-Life Grinch Caught On Video Stabbing Inflatable Snowman.” Yes, Yes, YES!!!




Actual Witch, No Costume Needed


Just my usual, orange skull t-shirt (the black one bit the dust last year because I mysteriously got a chocolate stain on it), too much makeup (Onyx eyeshadow and Currant lipstick), and my witchy hair, which is sunbleached and too reddish by now to be scary. Unlike my eyebrows, variously characterized as “like Frida Kahlo” and “like a serial killer.”


–a wizard and Pikachu. Unknown in what universe these two would coexist.

–a ninja and a knight. Or whatever has a silver knight helmet and a red scarf over its face, I don’t know.

–a man and his son who apparently dressed up as each other. I was drunk by then, so I’m not sure. And I was distracted by the fact that the grown man also had a trick-or-treat bag, so he could get as much candy as his son.

What I’m getting at here is, I ended up eating most of the Kit-Kats myself.


Bet you never thought you’d read those words!

I read a story on Facebook in which a man left a Kit-Kat in the drink cup in his car. He came back to his parked vehicle and found the Kit-Kat gone and a note which read: “I love Kit-Kats, and I tried your door and it was unlocked, so I took it. I didn’t take anything else. I’m sorry, and hungry.” The comments on this story included The Two People Who Comment On Every Internet Story:

  1. “He obviously made this story up just to get his 15 minutes of fame,”
  2. and, “How can all you people think this is funny? What’s funny about a hungry person reduced to stealing a candy bar?


“Caller said his neighbor threatened him with a crossbow. Other party also called and said the original caller threatened him with a golf club.” You know what they say about bringing a golf club to a crossbow fight.


There is now a spring-loaded glitter bomb. I am opposed to glitter because I don’t like texture. Everything should be smooth and soft.


I clicked on the wrong thing and deleted my entire post. This is rewritten from memory, so if it doesn’t meet your expectations, that’s my excuse. Now my hand hurts from typing. (You know, the one I slammed on the concrete back in May.) Life is hard.



I’m Writing This Under Duress

No, I’m not on a ridealong with Nick (the ultimate form of duress). I was given a sharp rebuke for not posting by someone who, as a Stephen King fan, is the likeliest to kidnap me and force me to write something. So, to avoid the whole pain thing, here is…

well, something. Something uncoordinated, due to the amount of alcohol consumed. Are you tired of hearing about how drunk I am yet? I thought so.

Redd’s Wicked Mango Ale is the perfect alcoholic beverage. I will accept no argument on this point.

Even I cannot necessarily avoid clicking on Facebook news items, ESPECIALLY when they feature…


“ARTIST KNOWN FOR COMBINING BRIGHT COLORS WITH SOLID SHAPES DIES AT THE AGE OF 92.” You know, I could combine bright colors with solid shapes. I did that when I was 4. Why am I not famous?

There was one other news item I meant to feature; can anyone tell me what it is so I don’t have to go back and check? No? What good are you?

Makeup advertising display at Walgreens–“Wild Is a State of Plan.” A. No, it isn’t (except maybe for Nick, and the only cosmetic he needs is tactical Chap Stick), B. English no language speak?


Day 30: Merely This and Nothing More


“Couple Arrested For Drugs Had Sex On Floor Of Bank.” How could you improve on that? It has it all. Including betrayal–he told the police the drugs were all hers.


The sun was very bright, which turned my glasses very dark. I looked at myself in the bathroom at McDonald’s with my dark glasses and red (technically Currant) lipstick, and thought, This is the coolest I’ll ever look. Lest you think I was overly cool, I got home and almost dropped my glasses in the toilet–as it was flushing. I found out I could juggle.

Remember the woman who responded “Shut up” to her son’s childish questions? She was on the bus again today. Apparently “shut up” is her default dialogue–this time she said it when he asked about the Boy Scouts and their Christmas-tree activities. She then told her two daughters to shut up, but that was understandable, as they were engaged in a debate about which one was touching the other, and who started it.

S.G.’S 30 POST, 5/11/13: Genius Has Side Effects

I intended to use this as a motto of sorts, but apparently decided I’m less of a genius than I thought I was.


I Got a Head Full Of Ideas That Are Driving Me Insane

…the title one of which I stole from Bob Dylan, but I’m guessing he can’t copyright ideas driving you insane.


Remember when I told you about the mascara designed to clump up on your lashes, so you look like, well, someone with clumpy mascara? Well, this month’s InStyle magazine has a manicure with deliberately chipped-looking nail polish. “The manicurist applies the color in a jagged pattern a little short of the nail tips, to get the chipped effect.” Really? You can wear it with your clumping mascara, and be sure to add that hair-styling product that makes your hair look unwashed. Or, better yet, just don’t wash your hair and use dry shampoo to soak up the oil–I actually see that recommended frequently, so the shampoo doesn’t fade your dye job. Next they’ll be saying don’t shower, just use baby wipes. And then the end will come.


From Mental Floss–“What Happens To Your Body After Death.” No, I’m not telling you.


–Do you feel teased yet, Nick? (“Do you feel tased yet?,” he answers grimly.)

When last we saw our hero, he was flying (literally) to the scene of a fire. I ran in that direction in a panic (not literally, of course–I don’t panic). I could just see myself getting in trouble, because a trained and equipped beast is an expensive piece of police department property (although less expensive than a police helicopter). Luckily, it was easy to keep him in sight, and follow him to the house in question. Flames were shooting through the roof.

An onlooker saw him and pointed at the sky. “Is that a–”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ve heard about those,” the man said dreamily. “But to actually see one in flight–magnificent!” The sun flashed off Nick’s dazzling-white underside as he circled slowly in the air. (He’s assured me he can actually hover while airborne, but I don’t take his word for things.) Then, having sized up the situation, he lowered his head, and dove straight for the fire.

A horrible thought flashed through my mind–in his endless quest to breathe fire, Nick was going to actually inhale the flames! Desperately, I raised my voice and called to him, but there was no sign he’d heard.

“My dog!” The woman’s scream startled me. She pointed to the burning house. A little dog stood trembling on the porch. It looked at its owner, then looked back. It headed toward her, then panicked at all the strangers gathering, and turned, trotting back to the house. And then yelped as Nick’s jaws closed on it.

I started toward him, but he leaped into the air again, his wings fanning the flames, the dog still carefully clasped in his mouth. He had cleared the roof and was ascending steadily, and then the roof fell in, sending a shower of sparks skyward which hit his wing–the only part that’s not armor-plated.

To his everlasting credit, he managed to glide down safely, and set the small dog on the ground beside its owner, before collapsing. I could see an actual hole in his wing, with smoke curling up around it.

He was trying to say something. I leaned closer–thinking at the same time, How stupid am I? He’s in pain, he’ll probably bite my head off!–and he said, “I don’t want…to breathe fire…any more.”






A Clean Bill of Health

Forgot to mention–during my ordeal, Ez stuck her head in the bathroom door to check on me–then immediately withdrew. Which goes to show that an animal’s love is not, in fact, unconditional.

I am in a good mood, because I will not have to drink that stuff for another 10 years, and I might be dead by then. Not only did it taste like the devil’s attempt at 7-Up, it had the consistency of spit.

As a souvenir, I have a big grape-colored bruise on my arm, due to difficulties getting the IV started. I should have known when the woman doing it said, “You know, I really appreciate it when it acts like it’s supposed to.” Which means that it either acted like it was supposed to, or it didn’t. At any rate, it will be 3/4 sleeves for me for the foreseeable future, because it looks like I tried to inject drugs, but was incompetent. Which I probably would be if I did. Today I wanted to wear one of my rose-print sweaters, and had 3 color choices with the desired sleeve length. “Multi Floral”–nope, too multi-colored, might match a bruise on the arm too well.  Black and blue print–not even to be considered. I settled on “Coral Bliss with Bavarian Cream,” which is probably the most overwrought color name Lands End has yet come up with.


Halloween decorations are not allowed to go up until October.

Speaking of the season it ’tis (I say redundantly), at Walgreens they have a life-sized witch statue, which startles me every time I go in. For one thing, she’s almost exactly my height. (Nick, do not breathe one word. Not a single word, understand?) As happens every year, I had to restrain myself from spending 99 cents (because they think we won’t notice that that’s basically $1) on a black silk rose with my choice of red, purple, or silver glitter, because what would I do with that? Stick it in my mailbox at work? Speaking of self-restraint, I was enticed by a display of Disney Villains makeup. Now I don’t need more makeup, but who could resist eyeshadows with color names like Dungeon and Scream of Fright? (“Not you, certainly,” says Nick, laying his hand on his taser, as he so often does when he’s in uniform in my presence. He must be easily frightened.) I will probably be kept from purchasing these by a dilemma–I have a sentimental attachment to Maleficent, because I had a Sleeping Beauty book as a kid, when the Disney movie first came out…but the colors in the Evil-Queen-from-Snow-White palette would actually look better with my coloring. Yes, the villainess from Snow White doesn’t have a name–they just call her Evil Queen. If I were an evil queen, I’d do something about that.

Speaking of evil, I was pleased to note that, for the first time, the concept of the Evil Clown is really taking off this year.

(Disclaimer: Unlike all other bloggers on the face of the earth, I have not been able to figure out how to negotiate a lucrative tie-in, so Walgreen’s is not, in fact, giving me a lifetime supply of Halloween decorations in exchange for this post. Even though there is a creepy spider living in my bathroom. And even though when Rom took his pack down from the hook,  70+ stink bugs came trooping out like the passengers in a clown car. An evil clown car.) 

Be Very Quiet

…shhhh….no one has been here since the 22nd. I myself haven’t been here for 2 weeks, although it seems like a lot longer. I guess blog time isn’t the same as time on the outside.


I have decided to self-identify as a writer. In spite of the fact that I only posted twice last month, and haven’t had anything published for money since 1995 (for a publication with a stated circulation of 200), and hadn’t had anything published before then since the early 80’s. Yes, I have been in government service since 1978. But I feel I have the brain of a writer, not to mention the wardrobe of one, so I expect everyone to refer to me as one from now on. {Disclaimer: I stole this idea from the Lucky Old Man, although his version of it is less charmless and peevish than this one.} 


My supervisor has recently reminded us that we can have one ridealong a year! But I would feel disloyal to Nick if I went with someone else, and aren’t you sorry you’re on third shift now, Nick? And that I’m not? More than one person has assured me that I would be ill-advised to go with him. Just look at him–lazing in the sun, rolling on his back, hoping the dazzling splendor of his snowy underparts will distract me from the wealth of claws and teeth he possesses.


First it was mascara designed to make you look like you’re wearing false lashes. But, because that wasn’t stupid enough, they have now come up with, I kid you not, mascara that creates a “sexy tangled look.” By which they mean, clumpy mascara. Yes, we’re now supposed to strive for that. Don’t take my word for it–go see it at CVS. They have an illustration and everything.


The convenience store at Claremont & Ray Becker now has fried chicken!

Time to pay a bill and go to bed.


Irony Infinite Reverb

Did you know that being ironically aware that you’re a cliche is itself a cliche?

But enough whining. Time for Complaining About Others! A woman on the bus was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Tuesday: It’s Just WTF.”

Objection the First: Why have that kind of attitude about what is, after all, a day in your all-too-temporary earthly life?

Objection the Second: It was, in fact, Wednesday. Reminds me of a friend I had who wore day-of-the-week underwear, but on the wrong days. You know, edgy, ironic, etc. How often do you get to say, “Hey, did you know my underwear is ironic?” (See, Gen X, you didn’t invent the concept.) (Of irony, I mean, not underwear.) (“But, World Leader,” they say, “weren’t you really troubled by the wrongness of her not using the day-of-the-week underwear as it was intended?” To which I say, Shut up.)

Speaking of irony, I just watched Letterman’s last show. Did you know my generation is retiring all around me? And people keep asking me, “So when are you going to retire?” (“Come to usss….”) Retire? I haven’t even become what I want to be when I grow up yet!

And speaking of being older than plastic (YES, I explained that in a previous post, WHY DO YOU KEEP BOTHERING ME?), I looked up when McDonald’s senior discounts kick in, and turns out it’s 55. I’VE BEEN ELIGIBLE FOR 5 YEARS!! And they can’t give me the time back.

Speaking of previous posts, a couple points about my party I forgot to mention last time:

1. A couple people mentioned my youthful complexion, and no, I am not making that up. I give all the credit to Paula’s Choice skincare. No, I didn’t start using it because of the name, although it is a bonus that all my cosmetics have my name on them. And no, I get no remuneration from them, because I wouldn’t know how to go about requesting it.

2. Nick took his life (and, more importantly, pride) in his hands and HUGGED me at the party. No one got bitten or scratched (in spite of what might reasonably be expected). Luckily, since he was in the thick of things (so to speak), he was unable to sneak a picture of the event and no one else did either, so I could have just made this up for all you know.

I was asked why the blog isn’t illustrated. That would be because I don’t know how.

Talking To Myself

I almost discontinued this blog. (“WHAT?!” Nick screeches, leaping to his feet. “But when we have our ridealong–who will write about my great and terrible deeds–and–and–” He sinks down, clamping his wings tightly against his body, buries his face in his tail and sobs. Sighing, I continue…)

I almost discontinued this blog, because, well, because it’s too late to be Elvis Presley. But Rom staged an intervention, and convinced me that I am, in fact, addicted. So, FanBase, to thee I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful–but yet oddly arrogant–and bring you–


–Whose visit (with the ever-indulgent Sam) to Dispatch the other day raised the question: How would salvation history be different if, when Eve offered Adam the apple, he’d refused to take it? Actually, Nick also provides us with the answer: Adam would then preen, congratulating himself on his willpower, and thereby show himself prideful, and we’d end up in the same fix anyway.

–Did you know there’s a variety of apple named after me? “Great for applesauce!” the bag cheerfully informs us.

I suppose I shouldn’t beat up on the helpless beast, who did, after all, give me part of his chocolate bar. Note to co-workers: The next time he says, “Anyone else want some?” I would like all of you to say yes, so he ends up with no chocolate bar whatsoever. (I promise to consume any chocolate you don’t want.) And would you like an apple now, Nick?


I’d felt mildly miffed that the Disney Princesses lip balms I distributed at the July 4th party did not include a nod to the Dark Side. But Disney has rectified this oversight for Halloween, with Disney Villains lip balms! My heroine Maleficent gets Ruthless Red Licorice (I can’t think of red licorice as ruthless–does it have any taste other than plastic?), Cruella de Ville got one which I can’t now bring to mind, and somebody else–the design on the tube made it hard to tell who–got Evil Fruit Punch. I am in no need of lip balm, thanks to Nick & Sam’s birthday present to me this year, but these products tempt me nonetheless.

Well, I am up too late, considering I must answer phones tomorrow. The last time I did so, I literally didn’t have time to blow my nose, because people were butt-dialing all over town. It really gets old. As do we all. Too late to be Elvis Presley, too early to be anything else.

Safety Clown Sez Back Off

I’m writing this while waiting for Nick to come up with a clever response to me on Facebook, so it may run long.

I saw an ice cream truck on the Taco Bell lot with “Safety Clown Says” on its side. Safety Clown warned us of various ways in which an ice cream truck can harm you. Oddly, they omitted “Contributes to obesity and type 2 diabetes.” And the words “Safety” and “Clown” don’t really go together, do they? “You’ll be safe with meee….forever…”

At McDonald’s, I ran into my esteemed colleague L.L. I have worked with her for many years, but only today did I find out she eats dessert before the rest of the meal.

L.L. is the subject of two funny stories: 1.) dressing in the dark and coming to work with shoes from 2 different pairs on (in fairness, the shoes did look very similar to begin with) and 2.) burning her popcorn and setting off the fire alarm. (The other time we called the fire department at work was when someone left a rotten orange hidden in the fridge.) (The fire department was not called when a Certain Person had hidden a rotting potato in her locker, but it was one of the most hazardous materials I’ve ever smelled. And it looked like smegma. And her locker is right below mine.)

It would only be fair if, instead of just exposing L.L. to public ridicule (well, as public as this thing is, which is to say, not very),  I told some funny coming-to-work stories about myself, but those stories tend to involve me coming to work soaking wet or covered in blood, and are not funny per se. (Although I seem to recall Nick being amused.) (OK, Nick, I take it back, I’m not slandering you, don’t sue me, etc.) (The above paragraph does not reflect the opinions of Nick.)


…like Michael Stipe, who sang that song. I resemble him in other ways, except that I have no plans to shave my head, which has a bump on it from being hit with a blunt object by a co-worker that one time.

I dreamed that we found a meth lab on our property. I had just picked up the phone to call work about it, when there was a knock on the door, and there stood 3 officers, who invited themselves in rather peremptorily. I thought, Oh, great, now there’s no way they’ll believe it’s not mine.  I think I had this dream because Rom encountered a guy coming out of our back yard, and when he asked him what he was doing there, the guy said, “I was just getting my stuff that I’d stashed back there,” holding up a trash bag full of–something–as if the practice were entirely acceptable. And no, we didn’t call 911 about that one, either.


–Dear Nicholas Alan, the reason I didn’t answer dispatch when they called you on the radio the night you came over–even though it would have led to excited speculation if they’d recognized my voice–is because it would have involved handling a piece of unfamiliar equipment.

–Dear McDonald’s on St Joe, please fix the stall door in the women’s restroom, which is the screechiest door I have ever encountered. Not only does it get on my nerves and sound like a crypt, but it alerts the entire establishment that I’ve just used the restroom.

–Speaking of which, dear Walgreen’s, thank you for your liberal store policy, which accepts “This nail polish got on my nerves” as an acceptable reason for a return.

Have I gone on long enough?


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