A cupcake, a finless Ariel, and a sock monkey in sticker-form.
"Dame" is a weird word and one of the few that makes me think of palaces and pool halls in equal measure. If I had to pick my favorite (palace-y) Dame, I'd be hard pressed to choose between Dame Agatha Christie, Dame Judi Dench, and Dame Edna to commemorate my love of books, movies, and wacky eyeglasses. But mostly wacky eyeglasses, so I guess Edna wins.
This past week I tried my hand at a project that brings new meaning to the term nail art. I'd scored this fashion plate print for free at Michaels some six months ago and finally got down to jazzing it up with . . . nail polish! Or, at least, I started with nail polish. Eager to unload some of my collection (crafting and fashionable fingertips are about as compatible as piranhas and pandas), I opened a bottle of Revlon's Mint Gelato and let the strokes fall where they may -- which, as it turned out, was no farther than the meager confines of an ever so slightly lopsided teardrop. That stuff smelled -- and I'm not just talking about the admittedly delightful chocolate mint scent that the good people at Revlon had mixed into their cosmetic chemical stew -- but about the chemicals themselves. Abandoning my ambition of polishing the entire mat in the interest of preserving brain cells, I slapped on four more teardrops before moving on to the more merciful medium of scentless markers. I drew flowers and foliage -- always a go-to when I need to fill a big space -- and, after finishing the last fern in my jewel-tone jungle, reached that crucial point when I had to decide whether to keep going or to leave well enough alone. Sadly, I went with the former because I thought that I had to have (and this sounds so silly, pretentious even, to me now) contrast. So I grabbed my colored pencils and glitter glue and created a line of shapes across the bottom. The result was pale and sugary and vaguely 1980s, kind of like something you'd see on a Trapper Keeper. I wasn't crazy about it, but my dissatisfaction only spurred me on further. On went the big rhinestone necklace and bows, completing this dame's transformation from chic to cheeky. Que up boys, this one's pool hall-bound.
Speaking of make-up (at least I was speaking of it earlier, and I'm sticking with that, transitions being hard to come by), it's a true wonder woman who can manage her makeup while driving. This is one of those tricks that I wish I could master, especially when I'm running late and have to take the wheel without my lipstick. Stuck in traffic and at lights, I imagine sneaking the little black tube (also Revlon -- only RiteAid's finest for me) out of my purse and dashing on a quick stripe like a heroine in a spy novel. But it's buried in my cosmetic bag, which is buried in my purse, and even if I end up finding it, there'd be the matter of unscrewing the cap and getting the stuff on without smearing it, all the while worrying that the traffic will move or the light will change at the exact moment I'm painting the Cupid's bow. I've attempted it once or twice, and the stress isn't worth the coup of the multi-tasking. That, my friends, is a game for a less anxious dame.