Saturday, June 05, 2010

Maybe I Could Just Rub My Eyelids Against That Guy On the Corner.

I'm always surprised when I realize that my mascara tube is empty, or nearly. It's as if I failed to notice that it was a 0.2 oz container and instead, I expected it to last until next summer. It's as if I thought I bought it at Costco. Or maybe I'm just in denial that I am on the brink of spending $9.00 on a 0.2 oz tube of artificial bat guano that in any other circumstance might be mistaken for dog shit.

Has anyone ever wondered why her eyelashes never look like the television ads? Instead of LENGTHENING! and SEPARATING! and PLUMPING! my eyelashes, mascara tends to end up in the corner of my eyeball, reincarnated as a glob of sleepy dust. My mascara, apparently, is Indian. Dots, not feathers. And it did something terrible in its previous life. Of course, that's only because I use brown mascara. Black mascara is another story entirely. Think Roots.

Speaking of bigotry, this guy on a local radio station was telling a story about his ninth grade teacher who, at the time, had been teaching for thirty years. This teacher was old-school, but nobody realized exactly how old-school until the day when he began explaining to his ninth grade science class that all babies are born "white", and some of them (the defective ones, apparently) begin turning "black" after birth. He also said that modern scientists were working on a cure for this mysterious disease of the skin pigmentation. Basically, this teacher thought that to be an African or African-American was to suffer from something vaguely similar to jaundice.

Now we teach kids that they're all special.

I'm not sure which is worse.