Vanity, The Cult of Mary Kay, and You Are Trying My Frackin Limited Social Skills

I did something absolutely retarded the other day. Oh wait, retarded is offensive in this PC world. So, I did something “helmet and cape waiting for the short bus drooling” stupid the other day. And I will admit my vanity led me to it.

See, especially now that I’m back down to “I may drown myself in my own fat” weight, I feel really good about myself. Really confident. And you know, I DO get a lot of random comments about how pretty I am. I might not be model level or anything, but meh, I’m a solid good-looking chick. That’s how that heffa got me.

So I was at the mall after seeing a movie with friends… picking up dinner. And this lady and gentlemen are sitting behind me waiting for their order. She calls me over. They both look well dressed, and professional and we are in a public place so I’m not worried that I’m about to be kidnapped. Am worried that I may be propositioned for some hanky panky, but whatever.

“I’m a Mary Kay consultant, and my friend and I think you would be perfect for an event as a face model.”

Those that have been to Mary Kay events are probably laughing their butts off at me. I didn’t know! I don’t do these kind of things! I avoid Scentsy (or however it’s spelled), Tupperware, Passion Parties, 31 – whatever THAT is. Pretty much anything that is going to make me have to sit in someone’s home and be nice to people who I do not like and do not know, having inane conversations about their kids and husbands… anything like that either makes me run away or I break out into hives.

The day after this Mary Kay event I have severe jaw pain. I think I was clenching my teeth so hard that I damaged something.

So before I get to the event, this is what I was told in text after exchanging information with the consultant: “I would love for you to be my facial model at my Mary Kay Success Event. You’ll experience a Million Dollar Makeover with Mary Kay, which includes a facial deep cleansing, perfect foundation shade matching, and glamour makeover.” Sounds like I’m getting one of those TLC channel, wanna be Oprah generic makeovers right? HAHAHAAHHAAHA, frack all of you to hell and back.

I show up nicely dressed to this event. It’s a whole Mary Kay office, so it has to be professional right.


I just like to say, I always knew Mary Kay was created by a little peach crayon lady from Texas. How that changed to all the super bourgeois brown crayon heffalumps that were in this building, I have no frackin clue. But hey, whatever. So I walk up the stairs and the consultant comes all energetic and hugs me and leads me to a room… with a long table…. With individual mini-mirrors and make-up kits on it. And I realize I’ve been had.

More women trickle in until we have about seven or eight around the table. Where then I have to deal with about 2 hours of this chick telling me how to do MY OWN facial and put my own make-up on, but with Mary Kay Products!

Seriously? I could have done this ish at home. In fact, all I did was remove my make-up and basically do it the EXACT SAME WAY.

Before that, during the facial, before I put anything on my skin I asked “Is any of this stuff for sensitive skin? I have seriously, SERIOUSLY sensitive skin.”

She says “Oh, this has been tested on humans, and everything is made to be able to deal with sensitive skin.”

I smirk and wait for my face to melt.

“All right, now rub this cleanser on your left side, and rub this one on your right. If you have dry skin you’ll feel nice and tight on the left and nothing on the right. If you have oily skin you’ll feel good on the right.” She asks each person what they feel, and then gets to me.

“I feel like my whole face is itchy and burning.”

“Oh. OH! Here’s a bowl of water and a wipe. Take all of that off!”

But the best part comes after we finish putting on makeup. We’re then led into the den of hungry consultants that we are paraded in front of… for doing our own daggone makeup. We get seats of honor up front as these chicks proceed to pat themselves on the back for an hour. While we sat there. And sat. And sat. I heard more than enough about muthatruckin pink Cadillac’s and making millions, and somehow helping women with self-esteem through makeup. About how I could retire with soooo much money. And win trips, and diamonds, and sisterhood! It’s like a sorority! The even have special coats!

And then, after hearing like 5 different life stories of this chick with the hair-line that starts halfway beyond the field goal of her forehead, or the lady that put on her wonderful Mary Kay in the dark while drunk and doing a yoga pose… finally we are pulled back up for the ending of the dog and pony show.

And down the row we are asked “Would you like to drink the koolaid?” Or that’s what I heard. And sadly I was asked first. Don’t you want to join Mary Kay?

“Uh, no. No thanks.”

Blank looks all around.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. See, I’m in the military, and that’s a 24/7 job. I’ll get a retirement with that. You’re offering Toyota Camry. I have a Toyota Avalon already. I do volunteer work. I’m busy. So, no. Thank you.”

“But that’s the kind of women we NEED!”

“Absolutely NO. I’m happy with my life thank you.” (Just IGNORE that just a couple of weeks ago I was complaining about the military. I am trying to make a DAGGONE POINT here.)

“Well, uh, was there ANYTHING you liked?”

“Well, the makeup was nice, but not the facial wash.”

I pissed so hard in their cheerios that the boss lady of this Mary Kay branch had to regroup. Fix face. I could have went on. I could’ve said “How the heck are you going to equate selling make-up to community service? Or the fact that you are helping women? By what, throwing product on their face so they can feel better about themselves???” Granted, I love my make-up, but that is not fixing anyone’s problems. You CANNOT save the world through makeup. Mary Kay is not a superhero. And what’s with this daggone dog and pony show where at the end you put women on the spot and try to go all Jim Jones drink the Koolaid on them? I have avoided all trappings of crazy churches, sororities, clubs, and craziness except the military. And I went in eyes open on that one. But these heffa’s are using underhanded tactics. I’d almost be in awe except I believe THEY believe all the pink vomit that comes out of their mouths.

And all in all, I’m just pissed I was frackin duped. They appealed to my vanity, and then had me putting on my own d*mn makeup like I JUST did that morning. WTF? Wasted 4 hours of my daggone time, and I DIDN’T EVEN GET FREE SAMPLES.

Frack you with Mary Kay consultants. Frack you with your non-sensitive skin facial wash and a super long and brittle foundation brush.

I refuse to buy their shitake. I’m sticking with Clinique.


Screw You Guys, I Quit!… Crap, the Military Doesn’t Work That Way

Whine mode is engaged. I repeat, warning, whine mode is engaged.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, or smoking rocks, everyone affiliated with the government has been having a pretty rough time of it. Even little old dimensionthe5th. And it feels like the last straw when it comes to my military service.

I want out.

But… you see, like The Godfather, it isn’t that easy. After 10 years had passed, I signed my life away 10 more. And I’m over 5 years away from that. There is the 15 year retirement option, but that’s only open to select people. So far, I’m not one of them.

But I just can’t deal with the bullspit anymore. Or I can, but I think it may send me back to mental health, pffft.

See, there’s the government that’s been playing around with our money and livelihood for the past few year. I’m tired of every year having to wait on pins and needles to see if this “We can’t run the government so we’re going to make YOU, every last service member and DoD Civilian, deal with it.” I can’t stand politics, and I don’t care if you are a republican, democrat, or independent. When it all boils down to it, I signed my life away. Agreed? But at the same time, I signed my life away with the expectation that I have a pay check that cannot be fracked with.

I’m tired. One of the reasons I joined the military was to travel the world and not get stuck like so many family members in Nowheresville, USA. I was a military brat, and used to moving around. But… I’m tired. I still want to travel, but I want to hop on a flight, be gone a few days at the most, and come the frack back home. I love the area I moved to. It happens to be the same place I said I would always retire. But with so many years in the military left, they’ll probably move me again. I don’t wanna! I seriously don’t want to. They’ll probably send me overseas again. And my monster teen probably will have to switch high schools in his senior year.

What’s the other bee in my stylish bonnet? Office politics. You say, DT5, office politics are everywhere. And I will tell you from having worked civilian jobs before joining the military, from hearing stories from others, military/government office politics is another animal. Maybe it’s no worse, but I am frustrated with it. Just today, having a conversation with my supervisor, I was told that he tried to put my name up for a course, but his supervisor, without looking at what I’ve accomplished, what positions I’ve held in the past, just automatically dismissed the idea because I didn’t have the right rank.

Rank gets you a lot in the military. You can barely know how to tie your shoes on a good day, but if you kissed the right butt, had someone write your evaluations, plumping everything you really didn’t do, you will get promoted. And… you will get this big *ss award at your end of tour. Now, this doesn’t matter if you have less time and experience than Joe Blow standing right beside you. If you outrank Blow, Blow pretty much blows you.

My body is tired. My health is just slowly losing the battle with the military. If I have no choice and DO make it to 20 years, my body is going to be a complete mess. The back problems that refuse to go away, that I work through each day so I can continue to work out. My medical condition, Hidradenitis Suppurativa, that is definitely NOT the kind of disease you want for a military job. Disease is aggravated by heat and stress? Oh yeah, let’s go run around in the desert with a whole bunch of gear and weapons!!! There’s my knees which I know one day is just going to finally give out on me just like my feet did long ago, and then I’ll have 2 permanent profiles stating what I can’t do for physical training. Maybe then they’ll want to kick me out. As long as I get some partial retirement or medical or something.

I probably sound whiny. I feel whiny. I feel extremely whiny after being completely sick but continuing to work because our civilians were stuck at home twiddling their thumbs in frustration. I feel whiny whenever I have to see another email about being a service member and that SOME people who are never named are not living up to their military values. I’m tired of doing my job everyday, and taking other jobs on because I love to work, to be told “Well, all that’s good, but you need to take more college courses to stand out.” I have fun, but I’m tired of rolling around in the dirt unless for some godforsaken reason I WANT to roll around in the dirt. I’m tired of having no control over where I will be sent in 2-3 years. And the thing that sticks in my throat so badly is that… I chose this. And for over 10 years no matter what I’ve accepted my choice and stood by it.

Maybe I just need a glass of wine.

Whatever Floats Your Boat Sinks My Battleship

So I like being independent. As a young team mom, it was a necessity unless I wanted to be like other women in my extended family that looked for a handout from the government or from a man by opening their legs. I knew from a young age that I wanted a life where I was in control (yes, even while being in the military). I was not going to be like my mother, who for half of her 20 years of marriage to the father unit, lost the power to do for herself, and had to relearn when they separated. So I strived for independence. Accepted the joy of being able to do for myself. If I wanted a man, it was because I wanted them, and not because I couldn’t survive on my own two feet. Even with my mother and father unit’s personal issues, it was the way I was raised.


I know many women who weren’t raise that way. Instead, they were raised that a good women stays home and takes care of it, while the man makes the money. That their children will suffer if they work outside the home. Even those that end up single parents, some of them seem to believe that when a man DOES show up in their lives, they are supposed to hand over the reins, and let them do the manly duty of handling it. Or even worse, the women that say they are independent, but are all window dressing:


I had an ex, we will call the Evil Ex. I almost married this psycho sicko. For two years, I was pushed into his mindbox of an ideal woman. One who shut up and looked pretty, one who catered to his every need, cooked dinner even if she had worked longer hours, and by his taste buds, not her own. I was cleaning for him, dropping friends he felt were a bad influence, having smexy time by his libido, not my own. Made to feel bad if I was too attractive or not attractive enough to other males (depending on his mood). He chose my clothes before going out, my drinks at a bar. I was a slave. His fantasies, if I showed any hesitancy, well, I was not being the submissive woman who God intended me to be. I’m sure you’re asking if this dude looked like a model for me to sink into this mess for 2 years. Nope. He was overweight and squirrelly at work. But I had low self-esteem from a previous relationship, and thought that he was the only level I can aspire to. He almost caused my military career to end, and also my life. I will never say all the things that this horrible man made me do, because I’ve unloaded in front of a psychologist to move forward.

But that, that was the last time I ever tried to be someone I’m not. So, because I am so independent and not a submissive woman (except in the naughty time room, rawr 😉 ) it weirds me out when I hear of other women who seem to live in the stone age.

A coworkers wife doesn’t work or drive. She a housewife, and even before he put a bun in her oven recently, from what’s he’s said, that was what she did. Took care of the house. Little Suzy Homemaker. And now, with the baby on the way, he takes off from work a LOT, to take her to appointments, and attend all sorts of prepare for baby new age classes. The one today was called Baby Boot Camp.


W.T.F. is a frackin baby boot camp?

Why the frack do you need classes to tell you what should be natural? I mean, chick sits on her arse all day already, couldn’t she have googled and YouTube that ish if she is so confused on how to change a frackin diaper? I was 16 when I had my monster teen, and was still finishing high school. My mother taught me stuff on taking care of a child when I was sometimes confused (though she wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night to help me if he was crying) but mostly let me figure things out because I needed to learn. That’s how parents since the beginning of TIME have raised children. This new weak butt way of thinking you need books and classes and frackin boot camps to prepare you for childbirth is a load of diarrhea diaper! *breathe D, Breathe!*


I hate that I’m so judgmental, because hey, its your life. Whatever floats your boat right? But it does piss me off that the neediness of a spouse can screw up the whole work schedule, and leave a team hanging out to dry because you can afford cruise trips overseas but can’t buy a daggone 2nd car so poor wifey can actually do something for her daggone self.

And some will say, well dimensionthe5th, you’ve never been married, you’re being kind of harsh. Your point? I call runny bull spit. You don’t magically wake up after saying I do to become a household workhorse and bun oven. You choose that.

I’m not even trying to knock stay at home wives or mothers. Hey, it’s what you chose. Good for you. Again though, when your choice affects others it pisses me off.

While I’m on that note of stay at homes, and super submissive I’ll say this. I respect you with rules: as long as it doesn’t affect me, and as long as you don’t put yourself on a pedestal. Because I work, and enjoy my career, it doesn’t make me less of a mother. Because I don’t treat a man like a God to be waited on hand and foot 24/7 while I just smile like a Stepford Wife is not the reason I am single. I plan on saying I do only once, but I will marry someone who accepts me for who I am, and who they are. I refuse to ever lose myself again. I love being my son’s mother even though I never wanted children. But my child does not define me. So you martyr moms that want to talk like you have the hardest job in the world: rephrase. You have a hard job of raising a child. It is one hard job, that except for those that have an issue with letting their children actually grow the frack up, pretty much ends from a day-to-day job once your little monsters leave the cave around 18-21 years old. Unless you have no backbone because you raised a co dependent child that doesn’t want to leave, or you have no life so you squeeze yourself into your child’s life because you don’t know how to live your own. All animals raise their young and then let them free to be adults.

Circle of life be-witches.