Sephora's Return Policy: Store Credit For Your Receiptless Makeup

Sometimes in the world of retail shopping, there are precious secrets laying in wait for consumers to discover. These secrets are only uncovered after much trial and error and there is never a statement or list provided by the company that reveals them to the public. In the food and restaurant world, these are known as "off menu" items (such as Jamba Juice's White Gummy Bear Smoothie and the McDonald's McGangBang). When these secrets happen in retail, I like to refer to them as gold nuggets.

This post is about one of my favorite gold nuggets: the Sephora Return Policy. My friend Juin shared the details with me and before I knew it, I had traded in some old makeup from Sephora that I no longer use for $225 in store credit. $225!!!

Here are the rules: 

Bring A Valid Form of I.D.

My guess is that they do this so you don't become a serial returner (much like a serial killer but instead of killing people, you're killing their sales). If you've ever worked in retail before, there are people who constantly buy things and then come back a couple days or weeks later, like clockwork, to return it. This gold nugget cannot be a consistent habit and should not be repeated more than once per year (this excludes one-off returns with appropriate receipts that happen throughout the year due to makeup-related gifts, misleading foundation colors, etc). You do not need a receipt to return any of these products; as long as Sephora still sells it, they will take the item back for store credit without a receipt. Seriously.

Clean Up Your Shit

By all means, dig through your bathroom cabinets and line-up all of the Sephora makeup you don't use anymore and look it up on the Sephora website (to make sure they still sell it - this is exactly what I did). But if you think you're going to show up with a Nars blush that has food particles embedded on the cover and fungus growing on it and return it for a full store credit, you are delusional. I mean, if you owned a store and someone tried to return something to you that you needed to handle with latex gloves, would you accept it? Probably not. Just take a Clorox disinfecting wipe or even a wet paper towel and make your makeup look as brand spankin' new as possible. It's incredibly easy and will make them 114% more likely to take it backsies.

Use Some of It, But Not All of It

They expect things to be returned used: after all, you have to try the product in order to decide that you don't like it. Hell, you can even use half of it and still return it for the full amount because Sephora figures that you really wanted to give the product an honest try. If you use the whole entire bottle/jar/compact/what have you, then you are attempting to return garbage. Sephora is nice and willing to help you, but they're not stupid.

Feign Illness

For whatever reason, Sephora is much more likely to accept a return if whatever makeup you bought fucked up your life. This means that it burned your skin, caused a rash, made your skin dry and flaky, clogged your pores, caused you to break out in pimples/hives, or any other ailments you can think of that are realistic (Leprosy and Typhoid will not work). This tip was given to me by the same friend who recommended this gold nugget and she got it directly from a Sephora security guard. This works especially well if all of the products you are returning are from one line or brand. I was able to return seven different Bare Minerals products I bought at Sephora by saying that they all burned my skin and left me with a rash. Gross and hyperbole, but plausible and successful.

Remember: There Isn't Only One Employee or One Sephora Store

If you go to return your products and are shown the door, always remember that there are more employees at that store and that there are other Sephoras in the world. Come back on another day and try again or even better, go to a different Sephora and give it a whirl. There will always be stricter employees and stricter stores so don't let being turned down defeat you; It is their secret gold nugget policy to accept anything for store credit that follows the above rules.

So that's it! I usually don't do two posts on the same day, but I was inspired to share how today, I cleaned off my makeup with Clorox wipes, waltzed to the Sephora four blocks away from my job, and was able to return $225 worth of Sephora makeup that has just been sitting, unused, around my bathroom. Give it a try.

EDIT: Comments have been locked on this post as I have been called dirty/filthy, a bitch, told that my parents should be ashamed of me, and the worst kind of person (Not murderers, rapists, or child molesters, right? Just me returning Sephora makeup at Sephora...) simply for reiterating the return policy of a company in order to help out those who would like to save money on unwanted Sephora products and are uninformed. I will not tolerate unwarranted harassment on my blog for a lax corporate policy over which I have no authority and which exists for every customer, beyond my personal purchases.

Things I Learned Memorial Day Weekend

Just to set the scene, on Saturday and Sunday I went to Bombfest in Hartford, Connecticut. On Monday I went to the beach in CT, then go-karting, and then mini-golfing.

Me and Aparna: twins
♥ A single Mentos is a "Mento."
♥ If you're wearing the exact same outfit as someone, you're twins. For example: If I put the AA Skater Dress on myself and my friend Aparna, we are then twins. If I do the same with my cat, we are also twins.
♥ Connecticut is brotastic.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's a body of water nearby.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's pizza in my mouth.
♥ If you can't decide whether you are hungry or have to go to the bathroom, you should really make that decision before you enter the Porta Potty.
♥ Snoop Dogg is adorable.
♥ If you have longish hair with bangs, and you painted your whole face so that it had a mouth on it and then put a nose and a pair of eyes on top of your head, you'd look like a man with a huge, long mustache (e.g. Yosemite Sam).
♥ If someone is jokingly mocking you, and you think they're just being annoying so you start mocking them, you are mocking yourself.
♥ Children/young adults should not be present during most competitive sports or games. I have a foul mouth and cannot contain myself when I'm 18,047 over par in miniature golf.
♥ Sea glass is the shit.
♥ Go-karting is still awesome, but the "no bumping" rule makes me sad because I'm violent.
♥ Sock puppet handjob blowjob: if you give yourself a handjob with a sock puppet on, you are also getting a blowjob from a sock puppet.
♥ If you hold up three fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a three-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up two fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a two-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up one finger on each hand and move slowly, you're E.T.
♥ Pantomiming rubbing chapstick all over your body can get confusing.
♥ Coheed and Cambria sound like a hive of bees being smashed by a rock that sucks at music (this was Sam's addition, but I wholeheartedly agree).
♥ EDITED TO ADD: Seinfeld sucks and is just about white people in New York complaining about soup.
♥ Kazoos are stupid.

This may be edited later because I am currently so tired that I can't remember half of the things that happened this weekend. I do know for certain that I ate a lot of mini donuts though.


How I Got Surfer Girl Waves With Random Stuff In My Apartment

Ok, so maybe it wasn't really random stuff in my apartment because I never go grocery shopping or live with anyone who keeps normal things stocked, but if you do, then you're in luck!

60 lbs heavier and many years ago
with my best friend and John Frieda sprayed hair

Throughout my high school years and a bit beyond, I gave up on the hair-straightening trend and wore my hair naturally. I am lucky enough to already have tight waves/loose curls, but I still needed to use a product to define them and prevent frizz. I fell in love with John Frieda Beach Blonde Ocean Waves Sea Spray. It made my hair magically beachy and smelled deliciously of coconut and suntan lotion. It was unlike any other product because it was separated like oil and water and you had to shake it up in order to mix the two parts before you used it. Sadly, sometime after 2005, it was discontinued (dun dun DUNNN). I never found anything that quite did what this product did for me and so, I started to wear my hair straight again.

Recently, I've noticed a huge trend of salt water beachy wave sprays coming onto the market (ex: GOSH Professionals Salt of Mine Spray). After ruminating on purchasing one for almost an entire day, it dawned on me: isn't this shit just sea salt and water? I started doing some research and it turns out I was 100% right (more like 73%)! You do have to add something hydrating to the spray since salt is really drying, but other than that, this is the easiest recipe for awesome hair I've ever found.

You will need:

♥ An empty spray bottle (if it was previously used, make sure you clean it really well because no one wants Clorox hair). If you're weird about these things, like I am, you can just go to the travel section of your local pharmacy or The Container Store (but BE CAREFUL because you might end up organizing things that nobody needs to organize like free makeup samples and rabbit food), and buy a spray bottle.
♥ Good ol' H2O
♥ Sea salt (If you live near the ocean, feel free to just bring the spray bottle to the sea itself and take water directly from there)
♥ A Conditioner that's on the heavier side
♥ Olive oil (I went to the "ethnic" section of my local pharmacy and bought olive oil that's specifically for hair but many sites say you can just use regular olive oil...the choice is yours)

First, I put a couple tablespoons of the sea salt in the water. I find the salt dissolves easier when the water is hot, but you do you. Add as much salt as you like (remember, you can always add more); the more salt, the beachier/piecier your hair will look. Then, add enough conditioner and olive oil so that they make up about 1/3rd of the spray bottle. The conditioner and olive oil should be in equal parts. Finally, just take a shower per usual, wash your hair, towel dry so that your hair is damp, shake the bottle to mix up the ingredients, and spray all over your head liberally. I have bangs, so I obviously avoided those and styled them normally. If you have areas of your hair you want straight-ish, don't spray there (but if I have to explain that, I'm not even sure you'll be able to make the spray so...). You can also spray on more once your hair dries if certain areas look less defined than others. Note: if you have pin-straight hair, it's going to come out pin-straight and awkwardly piecy, which will probably make it look filthy. This is not a miracle, wave-creating spray. Scrunching it does make it curl up a bit (A BIT, people), but you should expect the same results that you get from dipping your head into the ocean. It's more for definition and less for making curls/waves out of thin air (or hair! har har har). I achieved the same exact results as when I used to use the John Frieda spray and I also got to feel sort of like a mad scientist. The benefits are endless.



People own sugar gliders and poison dart frogs and all sorts of weird exotic pets that probably should never be inside of a home. Yes, sloths are endangered, but that doesn't mean I can't take one that's already in some sort of slothy foster home, right? I mean, there's a pet shop in Florida that sells sloths and it's not like those sloths will get released into the jungle of Miami if they aren't purchased. They'll just stay in the pet store forever until they die. Unless I buy one for $2,000 (yes, that is the actual price), take a plane to South America for $5,000 (no, that is not the actual price), and return said sloth to the Amazon Rainforest, I'm not actually going to be helping with the whole endangered thing. I should probably just go to Florida and get a pet sloth, right?

Do you know that sloths only go to the bathroom once per week?! I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. I did my research and internet sleuthing and this is a fact. Not only do their outsides move slowly, but so do their insides (i.e. digestive tract). Also, they have to climb down from their tree and go to the bathroom on the forest floor because I guess they don't like to poop where they do nothing productive. This leaves them incredibly susceptible to predators since their "fight or flight" response is more like a "just flight, but very slowly" response. It seems that because of these reasons, they've adapted and evolved over time to only excrete waste once per week. This means that they are the BEST. PET. EVER. My bunny, House M.D., shoots little BB poops out his butt about every five seconds. A sloth would be a definite upgrade on my pet-related fecal clean-up (even though there is no word on how large this once-a-week doodie [best word ever] break is).

From reading various sloth-owner stories, I found out that sloths love to cling onto you like they're hugging you. I can't even deal with the abstract idea that I could have a pet that's this affectionate. Normally, I just beg my cat to come to me with kissy noises while she sits just out of reach, staring at me mockingly. That, or I pet my rabbit while he looks at me with robotic, unfeeling eyes (if you ask me, rabbits are just above fish on the affection scale). Also, sloths can barely cause any issues with destruction like most other pets. Think of how many times your dog has eaten or peed in your shoes, how often your gray cat pukes everywhere (oddly specific), or that time your bunny ate your roommates' new headphones and then she yelled at you (even more oddly specific). Would that have happened if they were moving just a fraction of the speed that they normally do and hugging your torso? Probably not.

Anyway, moral of the story is that I need a sloth. NEED. I woke up the other morning, bleary-eyed, and asked my boyfriend (Sam, as some of you may know him) where sloths come from. He started going on about how when two people love each other very much something something something and then suggested we practice sloth-making. I'm not really sure what he meant so I just ignored him and did my slothy research. That's how I found out about that pet store in Florida that sells sloths for two G's and now I know exactly where my bonus money is going!!!

In addition to that Bradypus variegatus (that's "sloth" in science talk and I'm also thinking that I'll name my sloth "Bradypus" now) tangent, I discovered some news about my blog today:

Upset most of the time?! Well, now I am! Thanks a lot. Not only that, but I'm only 24. The analyzer not only told me that I was a whiner but that I'm an old-ass whiner. Way harsh.

I guess it's not as bad as Sam's analysis though:

Now that is just plain hilarious rude.


I Spit on Myself In My Sleep

Not once, or even twice; I've hock-tooied all over my own face at least three times this year alone. Before you become concerned, it's not a matter of extreme self-loathing. Last night, for example, I dreamed that someone was feeding me loose powder makeup and then I woke up to me spitting all over myself. It's like some unintentional, recreation of a Flavor of Love episode except I don't even get to fight anybody.

This picture sort of looks like it could be from a dream.
These aren't the only recurring dreams I have that affect me in real life. I have zombie dreams at least once a week, if not more. That probably has something to do with the fact that I am constantly talking about zombies. Why? Because I heart them and I can't wait for the zombie apocalypse. The dreams, however, wake me up and then leave me paralyzed in fear because my brain makes me think I'm still participating in the zombie apocalypse and that I fell asleep on the job. Suddenly, my roommate who got up to go to the bathroom is a rabid zombie ready to bite my face off and here I am, NAPPING.

I'm not sure if this post really has a point, other than to tell you that I spit on myself in my sleep sometimes and love zombs. I guess it could be worse though, right? I've definitely had dreams about peeing and pooping and have yet to wake up covered in my own excrement (thank God). But at this rate, who knows? If I can spit on myself while I'm unconscious, what awaits me in the future?


Cats: Bionic?


My boyfriend is currently visiting his grandparents in Arizona and for the next couple of days, he'll be tied up playing shuffle board and eating prunes and other things of that nature. He has added me to his blog and asked me to write a guest post for him while he's away so that his blog doesn't remain sad and dormant. I think he wants me to infuse his techy blog with some immature humor. I also think he made the biggest mistake of his life.

I've decided to mix our two greatest passions together in order to come up with a blog post that will appropriately combine our interests. Sam loves machines. I love cats. So, naturally, this post will be a series of scientific findings (Sam also enjoys science!) as to why cats are robots.


♥ One aloof, gray cat with a penchant for (purposely) vomiting and diarrhea-ing on people she dislikes (this includes an ex boyfriend, an ex roommate, a current roommate [Aidan, seen below with said cat], and Sam).
♥ A phone with camera/video capabilities, a real camera, a camcorder, etc.
♥ Two Yak Bakwards'
♥ Snacks


Much like how Jane Goodall lived with chimpanzees for science, this experiment requires you to have spent at least three full years living with a cat (Felis catus). You must go about your normal, daily routine but simply add a cat to the equation and observe it's behavior in your spare time. After the three year period is up, you can eat the cat. You can also keep the cat as a pet (recommended) and eat the snacks you prepared for your materials. Make sure to have your phone (camera, camcorder, picture-taking, video-making device) handy at all times in order to record traces of robotic glitches during these three years.You may use http://icanhascheezburger.com/ for scientific research on Felis catus. Finally, meet up with a friend and use the two Yak Bakwards' to record the reverse section in the chorus of "Work It" by Missy Elliot to find out what she's really saying.

Data and Results:

Example of robocat laser eyes: Shadow with my roommate, Aidan.

Also, the following videos which show clear evidence of mechanical malfunctioning:


As you can see from the findings above, nothing about cats is fucking normal or natural. In the first picture, Shadow demonstrates the laser cat eyes that have been documented with photographic evidence many times before. I've heard bullshit about how this has to do with some sort of reflective layer behind their retina called the tapetum cellulosum or tapetum lucidum, but I'm not buying it. I mean, what the fuck is a "tapetum" anyway? It sounds like scientists just added "um" to the end of some fictional words in order to sound legit and therefore, cover the fact that cats are dangerous, genetically-engineered, laser-eyed robots.

The subsequent videos support this theory even more with documented examples of feline self-mutilation, robotic noises, and sudden changes in complete facial structure. The latter is clearly a defense mechanism in order to camouflage the robocat using Mystique-esque, shape-shifting tactics. The other two are obvious examples of glitches in the robocat software; perhaps there is a short circuit or someone spilled a glass of water on the subject. It has now also come to my attention that both cats and machines historically dislike water. Coincidence? I think not.


Cats are definitely robots (possibly from outer space but that is TBD since I still haven't found Shadow's spaceship BUT I WILL). They will most likely try to overtake mankind one day and we will all be royally fucked. Lastly, the backwards part of the chorus in Missy Elliot's "Work It" is just her saying "I put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it" again. Can you believe it?!


Suck It

It's not uncommon in the U.S. to have braces. In fact, I've found that most of the people I know with reasonable teeth have donned some sort of headgear in their youth. I am no exception to this.

From the moment I was born, I found comfort in sucking on the pointer and middle finger of my left hand. This, coupled with mashing a filthy blanket I called shmata (Yiddish word for rag) into my closed eye, was pure bliss for me. Later, my shmata was butchered and cut into four smaller shmatas so that I could easily replace it when I lost it (which was frequently because I was a careless child). Finally, circa 1991, I lost my final shmata and consequently, my shit. My mom, being the best mother ever (and having a very low tolerance for whining, crying, and bullshit in general), immediately brought me to the nearest Toys "R" Us so that I could pick out the next thing to mush onto my face while sucking my fingers. My eyes lit up when I found a stuffed Siamese cat (we had a non-stuffed Siamese at the time but she was most unfriendly). I immediately started rubbing the tail under my nose and sucking on my two fingers and my mom knew that we had found the one.

Siamese Stuffy Number One lasted until I left him at my elementary school library about four years later and my poor mother had to soothe me that later night when I had a complete mental breakdown. Back to Toys "R" Us we went the next day and my saliva-soaked fingers were crossed that they still had the same Siamese cat stuffed animal for sale. No dice, but there was one tolerably similar. I decided to give this stuffy a proper name so that maybe I wouldn't lose him. Snowflake was born.

Nigel Thornberry: doppelganger of my youth.
Snowflake's tail wasn't sufficiently long enough for my finger-sucking affairs, so I migrated to using his forearm and rubbing it gently on my nose. The years went on and soon, it was 1997 and I was 10 years old. My dad knew that soon this finger-sucking thing wouldn't be socially acceptable and neither would my dopey, Nigel Thornberry-esque, buck teeth. He tried to sit me down and calmly explain why I should stop doing my favorite thing. I said no. When he commanded it "because he said so," I would steal away and suckle in secret. I felt like some sort of drool-covered fugitive and it made the experience even more pleasurable. My dad soon realized that I was fibbing about having quit my habit cold turkey and decided to bust out the WMDs: hot pepper-flavored, anti-finger-sucking nail polish. My father came in the night like some sort of ninja manicurist and painted all of my nails with the foul polish while I was unconscious. When I woke up, I was horrified by what I tasted but immediately knew what was going down. I decided to take one for the team (just Snowflake and me, I guess) and bite all of the nail polish off of my nails. Within 10 minutes, I was back in finger-sucking heaven.

My dad's efforts continued for the next year, but were unsuccessful. At 11 years old, I was now in 6th grade, and although I was playing it cool and rocking out the the Backstreet Boys during the day, by night I was sucking my fingers like a toddler. Some kids started making fun of me for my buck teeth and I distinctly remember one kid singing "fall into the Gap," except this time it wasn't about the retail store and was a diss aimed at my incisors. My father finally decided it was time for me to take a trip to the orthodontist and get fitted with braces. But how was he going to get me to stop sucking (my fingers!)?

Why is my middle finger shaped like a backwards 's?'
My orthodontist, Dr. Chan (located somewhere in the middle of New Jersey), took care of that for him with her giant book of deformed teeth AKA oral scare tactics. This book was filled with some of the gnarliest, snarliest teeth you've ever seen; they were black and decayed or protruding through closed mouths or growing out of foreheads or all of the above. One look through that book coupled with the phrase "this could be you if you don't stop sucking your fingers" was enough for me to quit for good. Two years, 21 changes in rubber band color theme, one clear, blue retainer with my name on it, and 43 gags from the taste of brace bracket cement later, I had straight teefs. I still have a permanent retainer wire fastened securely to the inside of my bottom front teeth and my pointer and middle finger on my left hand are eternally deformed and curve unnaturally (See Image 2). Other than the aforementioned physical maladies, all that remains of this ordeal is the emotional, tooth-related trauma I endured. Oh, and Snowflake still helps me fall asleep every night.


Subway Personalities I Could Do Without

The title says it all; these people make my commuting experience displeasing and leave me with an unfavorable attitude for the rest of the work day.

The Overeager Boarder

The rudest fucking thing in the world is to try and enter the subway before everyone has exited, but this person just does not give a shit. Even at 42nd street-Times Square during rush hour, they will slip in on the side while 20+ people try to exit through the tiny opening they are allotted. Where they have to be is just that much more important than where you have to be and you're just going to have to deal with that. The most effective method of combating the Boarder is much like the defense mechanisms of smaller predators in the wild; make yourself as big (and pointy) as possible. I usually place both hands on my hips, allowing my razor-sharp, hyper-extended, alien elbows to flank me on either side, and exit the subway without a care in the world. The Overeager Boarder can enter before you exit, but at their own risk. Hopefully some sort of lesson will be learned from the searing pain in their appendix area due to being rocked in the gut, but probably not.

Patient Zero

A lot of the time we have no choice but to be inches away and face-to-face with a complete stranger on the subway. Sometimes this can be tolerable with the help of a strategically-placed magazine or book. Other times, death is a better option since it seems impending anyway. This is because the person who you're smashed against is possible infected with the zombie virus. They sneeze, snot, hack, and cough everywhere and there is a variety of multi-colored liquids dripping from the areas in and around their mouth. There's no escape until the next stop when people shuffle around a bit and you intensely regret pointing and laughing at the people who wear surgical masks during their commute.

The Boombox

Whether it's with electronics or with their own mouths, the Boombox is loud as fuck. You can usually find them sitting down and screaming every word they say (regardless of whether they're with anyone) or playing their music aloud, sans headphones, from their MP3 player/phone. Their voice is usually one of the grating, Fran Drescher types and their music is always something severely intolerable like Mambo No. 5 or the Tiny Toons Theme Song. The Boombox usually rides the entire subway line from start to finish, most likely just to annoy people like you.

Inner Ear Issues

These people seem to have no control over their bodies. If it wasn't for them stomping on your foot every other minute, you would swear that they didn't even have legs. You surmise that even if they were sitting down they'd be flailing all over the subway car with each twist and turn. They're usually carrying a giant, turtle shell of a backpack which also slams into you every time that they do. Inner Ear Issues never notices the stink eye you're giving them, but you notice the stink eye that everyone else is giving you every time you domino into them on the subway. The resemblance to a Thwomp (of Super Mario Bros. fame) who has just gotten off of a spinning teacup ride is uncanny. The only way to save yourself from their war path is to get off of the subway ASAP.

The Insecure Stripper

We're all familiar with the stripper poles on the subway; they're not attached to any seats and have a ton of open hand room for people of all heights trying to stabilize themselves. If you're wasted, 18, and the subway isn't crowded, they are the perfect accessory for the sexy dance you've been practicing in the mirror every time you listen to a song with a lot of bass in it (oddly specific). If you're the Insecure Stripper, this is the perfect pole to hug with your entire body and not let anyone else on the crowded subway car use. If you're brave and incredibly unbalanced (physically!), like I am, you will hold onto the pole anyway. This will not detach the Stripper from the subway pole and you will most likely end up copping a feel somewhere inappropriate. Regardless of their gender, the Insecure Stripper always seems to be covered in breasts so that no matter where you clutch on the pole, there is a boob continually smashing into the back of your hand. Don't get me wrong, I love touching me some titties, but usually not unexpectedly, in public, and at 9:00am in the morning.

Subway Soapboxer

If you're an egocentric tool with a lot on your mind (or just plain certifiable), you've probably realized that the subway is the perfect venue to share your views with people. This is because as soon as those doors close, they can't escape and are forced to listen to your bullshit. In my experience, the Soapboxer is usually a deeply religious person who wants to explain the ins and outs of Jesus Christ to you or talk about how they are a fallen angel and only young girls are pure enough to touch them (the latter exists, has a ponytail, and likes to take the 6 from Astor Place). The Soapboxer may also read straight from the Bible, share their horrible poetry with you, talk about their political views, perform a scene from Shakespeare's Hamlet, tell you a boring anecdote, and countless other things. No matter how much you try to read or turn up the volume on your music, you can't block them out. You must listen and they know that.

Thanks for reading. If you think you're one of the aforementioned people, well then fuck you forever. If not, good luck riding the subway!


Beauty Secrets

Now that Blogger has decided to stop being a pain in the ass, I've decided to write a post about the beauty products that I simply cannot live without. These are the products I would take with me if I were stranded on a deserted island where I had to look fierce at all times because the palm trees were really judgey.

Kiehl's Blue Herbal Moisturizer

After breaking out unexpectedly in the grossest pimples early this winter, I was recommended this moisturizer by a friend of mine. I have tried Kiehl's products before and wasn't too impressed; they do let you sample pretty much anything if you ask for it and their tea-scented chapstick is delicious (but maybe you're not supposed to eat chapstick?). Either way, I was incredibly desperate so I gave this moisturizer a whirl. Within three days of using it, my skin had cleared up entirely. I still use it today and I get maybe one or two barely-noticeable pimples per month. It does have salicylic acid in it which happens to increase oil production in a lot of people, so moisturize with caution! If you have oily skin, like I do, I would recommend not using it everyday (my dermatologist recommended using it 2-3 times per week and he's a doctor so I guess that's pretty legit).

Benefit High Beam Illuminator

I never knew the importance of being dewy until I bought this little, shimmering bottle and experienced it first hand. I always use it after all of my foundation, concealer, and blush are applied and a little goes a long way. I immediately go from looking like a used-up piece of chalk to an iridescent extra from Fern Gully. Benefit also makes another variation called Moon Beam, but from what I hear, High Beam is where it's at when it comes to illuminator. It's recommended to apply it according to this diagram, but if you want to apply less, that's ok too. If you want to apply more, you run the risk looking sweaty and creepy. The creamy texture of High Beam lets you paint little dots onto your face using the brush applicator and then rub it in with your fingertip to blend it. You won't regret buying it. Trust me.

Covergirl LashBlast Volume Blasting Waterproof Mascara 
(in Very Black 800)

This mascara was recommended to me by my friend Emily who has the best eyelashes I've ever seen. I had been using DiorShow since I was about sixteen years old but when I saw her dark, thick, long eyelashes, I knew I was doing something wrong. LashBlast is less than half the price of my old favorite but about ten times better. The thick formula pumps up my eyelashes to extreme latitudes and longitudes. I would recommend using a lash comb post application because after a couple of coats, this mascara can clump up a bit (one pass with the aforementioned comb will fix the clumps and separate your lashes). The result is a blink of the eye that makes men and women everywhere drop their pants.

Carmex Cherry Chapstick

Since I was a little girl, I've been using this chapstick. My father has been using it since the 90s (and probably even before that aka the Jurassic period) and I can credit him with getting me hooked on the stuff. The soothing, mentholy feeling it leaves on my lips is like none other and one night sleeping with it on will turn any dry, cracked lips into a plush, healthy pout. This product has been essential to me since not only do I have huge lips, but I like to pick at them constantly. It's a horrible, self-destructive habit that has left me with bloody lips and painful cuts on more than one occasion. Keeping Carmex on my lips not only prevents me from picking them (who wants slimy, chapstick fingers?), but it heals the damage I've already done in record time. I would recommend wearing a thin layer of it under any gloss or lipstick to keep lips protected even when you want a more colorful look.

Burt's Bees Tinted Lip Balm

I cannot tell you how long I'd been searching for a tinted lip balm like this one; something moisturizing but with the tiniest hint of color. I was cursed with non-pigmented lips that, without any color on them, are a couple of
shades lighter than the skin on my face. It's a look that only zombies and Frankensteins could love, and the latter isn't single. This balm comes in six different colors (of which I own Rose and Tiger Lily) and isn't runny and glossy or thick and tacky like most tinted lip balms out there. It also isn't drying like most lipsticks. It goes on smoothly, keeps lips hydrated, and ads just a hint of color. The results are rosy/peachy lips that have a slight sheen to them and are the natural lip color that you've always dreamed of.

Bobbi Brown Long-Wear Gel Eyeliner 
(in Black Ink)

Liquid and pencil eyeliner should be wearing dunce caps in a corner somewhere now that this eyeliner is in play. It goes on smoothly without smudging or running and lasts until you're ready to take it off (I've even slept
in it and woke up looking like groggy version of Anna Karina in Une Femme est une femme). It's absolutely perfect for that winged, cat-eye look that we all know and love. I apply it using a Sephora Angled Eyeliner Brush that creates a perfect, straight line from even the most unstable hands. I used to spend almost an hour in the bathroom trying to perfect my winged eyeliner and 84 filthy Q-tips later, my eyeliner would still be crooked, smudged, and uneven. Now I just follow this tutorial and it's like the eyeliner does the work for me. Your friends that have been waiting for hours for you every time they want to go out will thank me.

Lush Big Shampoo

The tiniest, quarter-sized amount of this shampoo will lather up your huge-ass head. My head is like an orange on a toothpick and my hair is as thick as a lions, but this shit really works to get the suds going without having to use gallons of it. I used to go through one, Costco-sized bottle of shampoo per month, but I'm still on my first pot of Big and I bought it back in January. Not only that, there's still over half left! The sea salt, lime, and
other deliciously-edible, margarita-esque ingredients pump up the volume in your hair without frizzing it up. It also makes my hair act as memory foam; Big will actually hold your hairstyle even without hairspray. Make sure to use a very thick conditioner, only on the ends, since the sea salt can be very drying. Also, don't be afraid to stop into Lush and ask for a free sample at the register. The sample alone will last you a couple of weeks and you can get a feel for what I'm talking about. Warning: the sales people are very friendly and even more convincing. Whatever you do, do not buy everything in the store. I don't care how much willpower you think you have, it will all go down the drain with the washed-off cupcake mask that they just tested out on your forearms.

Organix Moroccan Argan Oil

We've all heard of how amazing the expensive, Moroccan Oil brand line of products are and how they turn even the nastiest mops into spun gold. Well, below are the ingredients for both products:

Cyclopentasiloxane, Dimethicone, Cyclomethicone, C 12 15 Alkyl Benzoate, Butylphenyl Methylpropional, Argania Spinosa (Argan) Kernel Oil (Argan), Linum Usitatissimum (Linseed) Extract (Linseed), Parfum, Yellow 11, Red 17.

Cyclopentasiloxane, Dimethicone, Cyclomethicone, Butylphenyl Methyl Propional, Argania Spinoza Kernel Oil (Aragan Oil), Linseed (Linum Usitatissimum) Extract, Fragrance Supplement, D & C Yellow 11, D & C Red 17, Coumarin, Benzyl Benzoate, Alpha-Isomethyl Ionone.

I bet you couldn't guess that the first one, the one with less additives, is the Organix brand moroccan oil! With a price difference of $23.96 ($30.99 for Moroccan Oil, $7.03 for Organix Moroccan Argan Oil via Amazon.com), it's clear which one is the right choice. I apply about a quarter-sized amount (remember: very long and thick hair here) to all of my hair when it's damp and then, on days when I don't wash my hair (which is a lot more than I'd like to admit because I'm disgusting), I apply a dime-sized amount to the ends only to keep them nice and hydrated. My hair maintains the luster and smoothness afforded by a luxury product and I can use that extra $23.96 to buy cheeseburgers.

That's it! I hope you had fun! Feel free to jack my style and use all of these products or use none at all and continue living your lives.


Celebrities I Hate and Why I Hate Them

I like to believe that each and every person on this planet has at least one celebrity that they hate with a fiery passion. Just hearing this person's name sends you into an emotional and irrational tirade about how you'd wish they'd just pass away. Your rage is almost palpable and even you're a bit unsure as to why your freaking out so much at the mere mention of this person. Below are some celebrities who do that to me.

Natalie Portman

I can only assume that she spends the majority of her free time shoving pretentious books directly into her anus and eating organic grapes that are fed to her by Harvard alums. Her personality is one of someone who shits strawberry soft serve and her acting is nothing short of boring. I was begrudgingly dragged to see Black Swan in theatres where I sat for two hours and watched the most predictable, self-indulgent piece of pseudo-hipster, man-boy fodder that I've seen in years. Closer was her only tolerable film but then again, I was able to distract myself from her "look how free spirited and quirky I am" nonsense and watch Julia Roberts, Clive Owen, and Jude Law do their thang. I tried to watch Garden State twice and fell asleep both times. Putting Zach "douchebag" Braff and Natalie Portman in a film together should be considered a federal misdemeanor.

There are plenty of other actresses I don't like for their general personality and acting skills, but Natalie took my hatred to the next level when she decided to defend Roman Polanski and barely speak out against John Galliano. She (along with a handful of other celebrities) signed the celebrity petition to let rapist Roman Polanski go free. Is he not a rapist anymore because you like him or because so much time has passed since he raped that young girl? Which one is it, Natalie?

She is also well-known for being incredibly outspoken about Israeli issues and some people have even started calling her a role model for young, Jewish girls. That's why I was so "disgusted and shocked" when all Natalie could offer up in response to the following Galliano statements was that she was "disgusted and shocked."

Said to a Jewish woman: "People like you would be dead. Your mothers, your forefathers, would all be fucking gassed."

"I love Hitler!"

Keep in mind, she is the spokeswoman for the fragrance that this Anti-Semitic piece of shit designs. Yes folks, he was her boss when these statements surfaced. I think you owe Jewish people out there a little bit more defense than just stating the fucking obvious.

Bradley Cooper

Pink shirts and bottle service; Bradley is that asshole at the club that everyone hates. He's constantly shouting for more jägerbombs and likes to keep everyone he knows privy to just how many figures are in his bank account. He's a huge fan of the "Steak and BJ Day" (which happens to be my birthday) and prides himself in how he uses $600 hair gel made from fresh placentas to keep his hair firmly in place. Is any of this true? Who knows. He could be a very nice guy who uses V05 hair products for all I know. I hear he does adorable things like keep hats and backpacks from the sets of movies he makes because he's whimsical and nostalgic. I don't believe that for a second. With a face like that I'd certainly hit it and quit it, but I'm not sure I'd ever be able to shake the feeling that I got baby oil into places I'll never be able to get it out of. Bradley Cooper is a complete slimeball and if that blind item about him beating his ex-wife is true, I'll never doubt my gut-feelings towards people again.


In public she presents herself as relatively normal. At home, I wouldn't be surprised if you found her on all-fours pretending to be some sort of Tina Turner/Siberian tiger hybrid. Jay-Z probably wakes up early everyday to make her a smoothie of raw meat, diamonds, and his tears. She almost redeemed herself by being kind to Taylor Swift during the whole Kanye West 2009 Grammy fiasco, but I quickly forgot about all that the second I saw her wailing in another commercial trying to sell strands of her hair or some shit. Doesn't it seem sort of strange that the members of Destiny's Child were replaced every other day but Beyoncé never left? Have you heard of or seen any of them since they left Destiny's Child? I think it's quite possible that Beyoncé ate them to absorb their musical abilities. The only thing good that ever came from Beyoncé's existence in the Single Ladies Clown video. The end.

Gwyneth Paltrow, Chris Martin, and Apple Martin

She was born in LA but somehow has an English accent. I can relate because I was born in Montreal but I talk like a pirate.While I hate watching Glee because it is the worst show on television, I also love Glee and end up watching it every week. Gwyneth guest-starred on Glee for the past couple of episodes as "Holly Holiday," the alliterative and "just one of the kids" substitute teacher. On her last episode, she had the audacity sing Adele. Have you heard Adele sing? Have you heard Gwyneth sing? Is so, then there's really not much more I need to say. She should be ashamed of herself.

Coldplay sucks. Coldplay has always sucked. If you disagree with this, then you might also suck (seriously, you might). Chris Martin may not be the worst person in the world, but he is guilty by association for marrying Gwyneth and fronting Coldplay. You may say it's a bit fucked up of me to hate on a child. I might tell you that me no care. If you're named after a fruit, and Gwyneth Paltrow was the one who gave you that name, then I hate you. The only reason that Moses Martin has been left out of this is because Moses rules.

On the flip side, there are celebrities that can do no wrong such as Zooey Deschanel (makes cotton candy solely with her voice), Ryan Gosling (the sexiest male feminist in all the land), and Audrey Hepburn (involved heavily UNICEF before UNICEF was cool). But I'll leave that for another time.


Throw Up

Vomit. Puke. Hurl. Losing your lunch. Tossing your cookies. A mouth volcano. Old unfaithful.

The serial spewer herself sporting her summer 'hawk.
I don't know about you guys, but my tolerance for the above has always been zilch. Just the sound, smell, sight, or mere suggestion of regurgitation sends my own stomach for a threatening loop. Even piles of my cat's barely-digested Purina cat food pebbles make me think twice about having eyes (and a cat). This issue has not only affected me, but can be seen taking its toll on sick, drunk friends without a hair tie, roommates with cat vomit-covered socks, and even helpless six-year-old girls with a bad stomach bug. The latter will be my subject for today.

Babysitting is the easiest thing in the world, which is why I spent most of my adolescent years and even college years sitting on babies as much as I could in my spare time. You get to be very silly for a couple of hours, maybe even sit on your ass and watch a Disney movie like you would be doing on a Saturday night anyway (just me?), and then you put the kid to bed (usually around 9:00pm or some other early-as-fuck bedtime) and watch your stories on the TV or troll the internet until the parents come home.

About two years ago in the West Village at around 9:00pm, I was doing just that. I had sang just about every Disney song in my repertoire (which is just about every Disney song in Disney's repertoire), tucked her into bed like a little Chipotle burrito, and placed her over-sized Dora the Explorer stuffed animal at the food of her bed. Then I sat in her room with her and proceeded to troll the internet from the comfort of a nearby chair.

About an hour later, and with absolutely no warning at all, she bolted up from bed and into a right angle and projectile vomited all over the end of her bed and Dora's face. I immediately picked her up by the armpits and carried her to the bathroom where she continued to toss her cookies into the more-deserving toilet. After managing to be somewhat comforting despite the fact that watching her made my insides want to be on the outside, I got her changed and brought her back into her bedroom. There I was met with the horrible realization that in order to put her back to bed, I would have to clean up all the throw up. There was no one there to save me and shirking responsibility would mean the parents coming home to a child who was sleeping in her own stomach contents. I looked down at my charge, who was holding my hand and looking very sleepy, and I knew that I had to just forget about my sensitivity to this mess and be a motherfucking adult.

A relevant coloring book illustration by Aparna and myself.

I went over to the bed with all of the paper towels I could find west of 6th Avenue and tried to scoop off what I could. The second I got within a foot of the bed, my gag reflex kicked in like I was getting x-rays done at the dentist, only worse, because at the dentist there is no giant, smiling Dora dripping with vomit. I could only conclude that before I came over to babysit, this little girl had entered a hot dog eating contest or consumed, at the very least, an entire pizza. I thought not being able to smell the disaster would help me be more efficient so I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and tied it around my face so that only my eyes were visible. I was the Upchuck Bandit.

Despite the fact that I could only smell dingy soap and assorted crumbs, my body would not allow me to clean up the mess. If I continued to force myself, it would only be a matter of time before the only thing adult in the room would be the size of the addition piles of puke on the bed. I took the entire comforter, including Dora (who, at this point, was definitely mocking me) and dumped it into the bathtub. Had this not been an NYC apartment and had there been a washer, I wouldn't have been so cruel about my placement of the bedding but hey, I didn't have much to work with. The bed was finally clean and I was relieved. I closed the bathroom door behind me and let myself forget that throw up ever happened that night. It wasn't until the parents came home that I let myself remember and recount what happened (I had called them earlier during the incident and left a message, but they didn't pick up or return my call). Her mom went straight to the bathroom and immediately started dealing with the barf-encrusted detritus. Not a single gag could be heard as she waded elbow-deep into the filthy remains of one of the worst nights of my life.

This was the moment that I realized that I might not ever be able to have children. If I do, they will either have to throw up alone and then promptly clean it up or watch as their mother retches along with them every step of the way. I guess I can only hope that my baby daddy has absolutely no gag reflex (that's what she said!).


My First Chocolatey Post

Chocolate, but not my chocolate.
So this is the very beginning of it all. The first post ever on the first page ever of my first blog ever (except not really, I have like five others). What better way to kick this baby off than to start off by telling the world how much chocolate I just ate? I'll describe it as best as I can (even though I sort of blacked out during) so you can feel as if you were there with me.

I was minding my own business, finished up the leftover Mongolian BBQ from yesterday's lunch, when a coworker quietly suggested I try some Kinder Shoko-Bons. After having consumed my body mass in Kinder Buenos yesterday, I really didn't have the will power to refuse. The four Shoko-Bons were immediately followed by four Dark Chocolate Hershey Kisses, four triangular pieces of a Milk Chocolate Toblerone, two Hershey Krackel fun-size bars (fun-size indeed), one mini Milky Way, and one mini Almond Joy (which I promptly told to fuck off since I've never liked coconut involved in my business affairs). At this point, I was using the more pedestrian chocolate as palate-cleansers for the European and Mexican chocolates we had leftover from team members' various vacations. It was finally brought to my attention that I had been doing laps around the immediate office area and shoving whatever resembled chocolate into my face. As most of you may know, this is quite the dangerous endeavor when you remember how much chocolate going into your body resembles chocolate coming out of your body. Now that I've slowed down, I'm finally writing this first entry after hours of tinkering in the "Design" tab but mainly, I can't stop thinking about the more chocolate that's a couple of feet away from me.

Anyway, now that story time is out of the way, I'm sure you want to know what kind of shit to expect from my blog in the future:

♥ Food is at the very top of the list. Even if my post isn't about food at all, there might be pornographic pictures of food. This is how I roll (mmm now I want a roll).
♥ How my life relates to various episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and what this means when discussing my general mental health and well-being.
♥ Makeup and clothes: why I buy so many, where on my body I put them, and if they stop being used after the second or third go and remain in a drawer/closet for the rest eternity.
♥ I might explain why I hate any fictional media involving space. I also might not and you'll just have to come to terms with that.
♥ Feminism, sexism, racism, and ableism. Expect a lot of isms.
♥ Things that make you go "Awwww" and then your eyes or ovaries (provided you have a set) explode. An example of this is the YouTube video, Cookie Monster. May the first sentence of this bullet serve as a warning when watching this. I will not be held responsible for any dangly eyes or splodey ovaries.
♥ New York City reviews: I will complain about the subway, rave about the Brooklyn brunches, and pull my best poker face when describing the underground warehouse parties.
Toilet-related things. Doodie is the best word in the world and I love talking about poop. It makes me happy and kind of proud. Hopefully you feel the same way.

That's about it! I hope everyone is pumped for the ride of their life. Since there's never a good way to end a post, especially your very first one, I'm just going to...