Tragedy at Dior

Back in February, my fabulous theater hosted Oscar Night America (in case you've forgotten about my outfit, you can remind yourselves here), and my friend JJack and I managed to snag two swag bags. Included in said swag bags were fabulous gift certificates from Christian Dior for: a pampering mini-facial, an expert makeup application, a relaxing hand massage, and a deluxe sample. After months of procrastinating, JJack and I decided that the time was right to go to the super-swanky Somerset Collection to experience the wonder that is free stuff from the Dior counter. Sounds great, right?

Not so much.

I will only briefly mention the part where we decided to toss aside our Mapquest directions and, as JJack said, "let fate be our guide" - the end result of which was a 55 minute trip that took just over two hours. I will also only briefly mention the man who tried to give us directions to "the mall" (when Somerset is so much more than a mall) but only made us feel bad for not understanding that some cruise was taking place on a major thoroughfare and we would be hard pressed to get there from here. Thanks for nothin', buddy. When we finally arrived at Somerset, an hour late for our appointments, the fun really began.

No facial. No hand massage. No sample. Instead, we were treated to the fine experience of horrible makeovers. Here's a before picture:
(much before, actually, from back in January)
Don't we look happy? Don't we look normal? We were trying on wedding gowns, just for funzies, and that was not the best day because we had horrible customer service, but at least we looked normal. Alas, here is the after picture:






















Seriously? Drag queens. Or hookers, maybe. JJack appears to have a grand total of seven eyelashes per eye, as well as the most amazing purple eyeshadow and skin color that doesn't occur in nature (unless you're Tara Reid). I somehow manage to look mannish and whorish at the same time - there is eyeliner on UNDER MY EYELIDS. I didn't think that was possible. Also, my lips were super effed up - and the amount of lip liner I had on couldn't have helped. And don't get me started on Blaine and Svetlana, our makeup artists from hell. Blaine was incompetent, and Svetlana was Miss Popularity - she kept flitting off to help other customers with their purchases. She must've known that we weren't going to buy anything...

When we went to get a snack at California Pizza Kitchen after the debacle had ended, they sat us in the corner. No lie.

For Jjack's take on the whole situation, go here.

tragedy at Dior - D-