Glitter: A femininity gate way drug

It wasn’t until recently that I realized the greatness that is glitter. In my years, I noted glitter as a nuisance. A material made solely to annoy me, and wedge its way onto every surface imaginable. When handed a birthday card laden with glitter, my skin would crawl. Christmas decorations covered in glitter caused me brief fits of rage. Once glitter enters your life in one way, shape, or form – you don’t get rid of it.  It is with you forever.

Days, weeks, months will go by and you will still find a little speck of light mocking you. The birthday card placed on the kitchen table will forever be immortalized due to the remaining particles left behind. It’s the note on a bathroom stall saying “Jessica was here.” In this case, glitter was here, and there is nothing you can do to get rid of it.

As you can imagine, putting glitter anywhere near my face was a fate worse than death.  I couldn’t even fathom what the texture would be like.  Nor could I comprehend the pains I would have to take to remove it.

I need matte everything.

Matte foundation, matte eye shadow and matte lipstick. Highlighter? No way! A blush with a sheen? Get out of here with that! Any employee at Sephora is completely justified if they ever called me insane the moment I left the store based on my in store glitter retorts.

Truthfully, glitter was only acceptable if you were a young girl in a dance competition. Mandatory only to set yourself apart from the sea of dancers all dressed alike. It was not something to apply because you enjoyed it. Shudder at the thought.

But one day, my theory changed.

A little less than a year ago, I took a new position and found myself in cubicle life. Monotony in its purest form. I would walk the hallway, look at my reflection in one of the office windows and think “My god, this is dull work.  I am dull. Everything is dull!”

That day, I marched myself into Sephora and picked up every glittery, shimmery, obnoxious article of makeup I could get my hands on. My basket was filled to the brim with highlighters, shimmer bricks, glitter eyeliner, and the most obnoxious lip colors I could find.

When home, I lovingly placed my new purchases on my vanity. I couldn’t help but think that I’ve either lost my mind, or I have found myself embarking on a new chapter of my essence.

Yes, my essence.  This is about to get deep.

It took some time to realize, but glitter had represented femininity to me. Femininity is something I never mastered, and denounced in a way. It is not unlike me to tell friends and family that I harbor more testosterone than I do estrogen. I do not wear skirts. I do not wear dresses. The few occasions where I do have to wear them, I feel incredibly self-conscious. My confidence shines when I’m wearing a bad ass pair of pants, a blouse and a blazer. To quote my sister, I’ve been dressing like Hugh Grant for as long as she can remember.

Allowing glitter into my vanity, was a means of opening a door to my femininity.

Am I wearing skirts and dresses because of it?  Not yet.  A feeling so deep doesn’t change overnight. I am, however, standing a little taller. A little more poised, and a little more polished. Still a little crass in conversation, but now with a thin layer of class. Never did I expect that a cheek highlighter would have such an effect on me.

Such a simple change of heart has improved my quality of life, and confidence. The love for matte products stemmed on the fact that I wanted to blend in, and go about my business. God forbid I bring attention to my adult acne, the crook in my nose, and my tea stained teeth.  Sure, I still have all of those things, but now they are illuminated and I don’t care. I have deemed this one of the best feelings ever.

All thanks to glitter, a femininity gateway drug.

Until next time,

– Jessica


9 to 5: What a shitty way of living

Going to work every day makes me want to stab my eyes out. It also makes me want to swerve my car into oncoming traffic, as well as lick the drinking glasses of everyone who coughs with the hope I get the flu and can call out sick. Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not opposed to working. I fully understand that hard work is required in order to live a fulfilled life, and nothing is handed to you. However, the concept of work as it stands now with the traditional 9 to 5 time crunch is gut wrenching.

Within the last year, I’ve realized that my brain cannot function on a normal human level when I’m confined to a small space, doing one task repeatedly. My synapses will fire on average of four hours, and then slowly retreat into the cavernous spaces in my skull. Come 1 o’clock, I switch gears into cruise control and completely lose sense of the task at hand. I am not engaged.

You may be thinking, “Well, what the hell do you do at work? If it’s boring, of course you are not engaged.” Okay, you have a valid point person on the internet reading this. The job title I hold is not one that peaks the interest of many. A glorified paper pusher with the label “Reconciliation Specialist” attached. Bow down, for I am the queen of shipping violations and contra-sales for a hair care company. They buy, we ship, we invoice, and they short pay us claiming they didn’t receive product. I research, bill back, or write off. For 40 hours a week, this is what I do. There is no change of pace, nor is there any sense of gratification.

Often times, I find myself sitting at my desk thinking of all of the other things I could be doing that would be entirely more entertaining than working. What could I do with these 40 hours a week if I didn’t have to work?

  • Nap
  • Play with the cats
  • Learn to cook
  • Read every book on my “To Read” list
  • Cultivate and maintain friendships (because by the time I get home, I mostly hate people)
  • Learn something new
  • Learn the art of photography
  • Write
  • Wear makeup because I actually enjoy applying it, not because I have to look presentable
  • Exercise more often
  • Go to stores during the day and deal with fewer people
  • Watch every Harry Potter movie
  • Surprise my husband with lunch while he’s at work (Haha, sucker.)

Doesn’t that seem like a much better quality of life? Of course it does. How does one accomplish it though? Aside from winning the lottery, I have failed to figure out a profession that keeps me home.

In lieu of that, I do believe that employers should allow their employees to make work more comfortable. Realistically, I spend more hours during the week in my cubicle then I do in my own home. Why can’t I bring my cats in and let them hang out with me? Oh, because people are allergic? That needs to stop being “a thing” because people bring their kids to work all of the time and I’m allergic to them. If I can’t bring my cats, I should be allowed to wear sweatpants, or take a nap in a closet when I crash and need to recharge the brain battery. Apparently both of those suggestions are frowned upon in the current 9 to 5 mentality but its time to change. If I’m not tired, and my pants aren’t digging into my waist, I can guarantee you that I would be more productive. A beer and wine cart would also not be the worst idea as well.  A little 4 o’clock pick me up? Sure thing, boss! Since you were so kind to bring my alcohol, I’ll gladly stay an extra hour tonight even though I’m on salary and won’t get paid for it!

But alas, that does not happen.

Until cats, naps, sweatpants, and beer is allowed in the work place – I will continue dreading my day job. If for nothing else, it’s a constant motivator to find out what I really want to be doing with my life and pursue it.

Trying to deduce what my life’s work should be is becoming more difficult than getting out of bed when the alarm goes off every morning. And believe me, that’s a difficult task. I very easily can sit and envision my life a certain way, but how to get there is beyond me.

One day I will find my path, but until such time – I will continue on the 9 to 5 conveyor belt hoping that one day my boss will drop a six-pack on my desk.

Until next time,

– Jessica

Cheers to the freakin’ New Year.

Admittedly, I am the worst when it comes to blogging. In the past 5 years, I’ve started countless blogs which all met their demise fairly quickly. However, I love the idea of blogging. There is something so intriguing about being able to post anything you’d like onto the internet for all to read. The problem is – it rarely ever gets read. Which, in turn, is why I gave up all of those times. I’m the queen of giving up. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Or in my case, when the going gets tough – the tough take a nap and then never try again.

Welcome to the brain of the quintessential pessimist, where it is much easier to offer a weak excuse as to why not rather than to fight for it.

As you can tell by the time stamp, it’s January 1st.  The first day of the new year, when you are incredibly restless and grabbing at any possibility to find something that’ll make your 2015 “the best year ever!” You are currently reading my feeble attempt at making that quote happen. This is where my pessimism with a shot of realism comes into play, because I ultimately do assume that this blog will be thrown into the same grave as all other blogs that came before it. But you know, it’s 2015 – so why the hell not try again?

A large part of me believes that the reason why my previous blogs have failed before was that I was trying too hard to fit a mold, and be someone else.  You look at beauty bloggers with their perfect hair, make up and well…perfect everything and it’s down right enviable. Then you have the DIY bloggers who magically install tile perfectly the first try, bust out their Canon DSLR and take the perfect photo to catalog how awesome they are.  Let’s not forget the food bloggers who just whip up the best ever dinner featuring all of the amazing finds they added to their basket at Whole Foods.

It’s getting to the point where it’s almost nauseating.

Don’t get me wrong. I do not begrudge these bloggers for being “perfect” because I do understand that underneath the blog surface they are probably living in squalor with everything they own strewn about but can still take the perfect photo at just the right angle where we are none the wiser to their filth.  They clearly have a gift, and that’s awesome.

I do not have that gift, and pretending like I do is not apart of my 2015 “Work on what you can, but be yourself – even if you kind of suck” mentality.

This is where my realism comes into play.

2015 is going to be the year where I do a lot of soul searching, and really let myself live and not be strapped to my baggage. God, I hate that word. Baggage.  But, until Webster comes up with another adjective to describe a life times worth of bullshit – baggage will have to do.

Alas, welcome to this blog which will inevitably be a mishmosh of just about everything. You know, the usual – me being bitter, surly, sarcastic with a pinch of “Jesus Christ, could that new NARS eyeshadow pallet be any more fucking gorgeous?”, to full on crazy cat lady. Because that’s who I am and I’m going to embrace that shit.

Family and perfect bloggers beware.

Until the next time,

– Jessica