Shame Me: I Bought A Kylie Lip Kit

screen-shot-2016-10-21-at-12-14-30-pmI’m writing this post with my head down, covered in shame and disgust. I want ALL of you to know this. I hate myself just a little bit right now. 

:::sigh::: I purchased a Kylie Lip Kit :::shakes head::: Don’t look at me. 

Why? Well, I’ll be honest with you. I was drinking too much wine with my good friend, tried hers, and loved the color. I also tried to steal it (and failed). With all the hype, I couldn’t help but be curious. 

I was under the assumption these lip kits were so exclusive still. Like no one could get their paws on them, hence why I almost had a heart attack when I heard she had one (or maybe it was the alcohol… hmm). Like wasn’t her website crashing every other day due to demand a minute go? Or am I living in March of 2015? 

Turns out they aren’t exclusive anymore. Any slob can go onto her dumb website and buy any of the “normal” colors. If you want blue lips, though, you’re shit out of luck, ya freaks. 

So I pulled the trigger and got the KOKO K gloss. Sigh. I mean I can’t honestly deal with my life decisions. 

When it arrived at my house, my first reaction was, “what the fuck is this packaging?” It was a crappy, non-descript black box. No logo, no branding. I mean anything could have been in this damn box. WHAT’S IN THE BOX?! For $17 per gloss, perhaps you could swing for more jazzy packaging, Kyles. No?

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I opened the stupid box and was greeted with a large and in charge “KYLIE.” But I’ll give her this much, her branding is on point. So kodos to the rad designer who created her logo, because God knows it wasn’t Kylie Jenner. 

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Then I gracefully lifted up the styrofoam, unenthused, only to find a postcard of a Kylie Jenner mugshot? In a Louis Vuitton head wrap and taas out and about? And her seductively holding a name plate that said “KINGKYLIE”? Will someone PLEASE tell me what any of this has to do with lip gloss? Please. 

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I was so confused, and horrified, and couldn’t help but say to myself, “why in the blazing fuck did I waste over $20 on this dumb shit?” 

And then I turned the postcard over. There I found a note that looked like it was written by a child who was trying to work on her penmanship. Written, of course, by Ms. Kylie Jenner. I couldn’t help but wonder how many morons actually thought she had handwritten this note specially for them.

Also her punctuation on the note was 50 shades of fucked, so immediately I wanted to set fire to it. Kylie, you missed a period, dammit! “Let” should be initial CAP. AND there really isn’t a need for an ellipsis there. ARGH. Instead, I just threw it on the ground and kept going. I wanted my gloss, dammit. 

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When I got to the gloss, and applied it to my lips, it was the most anti-climactic moment of life. It was just lip gloss. That’s all it was. My mind wasn’t blown. It never dried like it claimed to (my lips looked all juicy … VOM). And it didn’t stay on extra long. The minute my lips touched my wine glass it was coming off. 

And, upon contrary belief, one application did not turn me into a Kardashian. Shucks.

Color-wise it was pretty and looked nice on me, that’s for sure. And I mean, it didn’t smell weird? I really don’t know what else to say about it. 

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All I know is I’m pretty sure you can find a better product, for a better price, and not pay over $8 in shipping. In fact I just got a great matte lip gloss from Ulta for $9. Check it. I even think they do a buy one, get one dealio. Aye, aye, aye, aye. 

The joke is on me, really. I just gave the Kardashian klan some of my hard-earned money, only to buy a lip gloss that I’m actually embarrassed to put on in public. Seriously. I mine as well be doing secret lines of coke on the train, but no, just applying my Kylie Lip Kit, don’t mind me! 

I can honestly say in this instance, curiosity DID almost kill the Kate. 

Brunch, A Night Club, & the Faux-dashians

screen-shot-2016-10-17-at-3-13-40-pmI remember when I had a fake ID, going to “da club” was something out of Sex and the City. I thought everything was so chic. I would sit on the velvet couches, sipping my cosmopolitan whilst rocking my boot cut jeans and satin “going out top,” thinking life really couldn’t get much more glamorous than this. 

It’s been 9 years to the date since I’ve retired my fake ID. And rarely does my ass ever step foot into a club because, well…

  • I hate people
  • I really can’t stand trying to have a conversation over blaring heinous techno (Jesus do I sound dusty and decrepit)
  • I loathe douchey dudes who think an Armani Exchange button down gives them the right to grind up all on me. HARD pass. 

But when someone says to you, “hey, want to go to a brunch nightclub,” you nod your head yes, because why wouldn’t you? I feel the need to also express that I was highly intoxicated when I agreed to these plans because I loathe brunch, and see above my thoughts on nightclubs at age 29. But hey, I was visiting one of my closest friends and we were heading into New York City… when in Rome. 

Brunch in Philly, or “Sunday Funday” (by the way, that term makes me want to kick people) from what I understand, is super casual and ends at a normal hour. Again I don’t partake because I fucking hate having to choose between a burger or pancakes. And also I don’t need an excuse to drink during the day, okay? 

Brunch in NYC is, well, a beast. Little did I know I had to batten down the hatches. I walked up to this “brunch nightclub,” also known as Il Bastardo, at 4 p.m. to a bunch of sloppily drunk contoured girls in teeny tiny outfits, chain smoking, crying, and trying to balance on their 4 inch heels and failing miserably. Holy fuck balls … where was I?! 

I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and Kardashian clones stumbling around like drunk slobs carrying bottles of champagne, BOTTLES, with straws hanging out of them. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, kids. And people were getting carried out of this place. At 4 p.m. On a Sunday.

After screaming to the hostess five hundred times over the DJ announcing, “WHERE MANHATTAN AT?!?!” “Party for 2 under KATE … KATE! K-A-T-E!” We were seated directly in front of the dance floor, which was glorious, because we had front row seats to this shit show. But mama needed alcohol. It was the only way I was going to survive this insanity.

Immediately two bottles of champagne arrived with no straws and no cups. I swear the waiter looked at me like I had five heads when I asked for a glass to drink my champagne out of. Oh okay … are cups not cool in NYC? I’m confused. 

We ordered food, which felt super out of place, but I noshed on my truffle fries as the faux-dashians selfied themselves to death around me, because … well fries. I know my priorities even when I’m in the twilight zone. 

Once I had sweet alcohol flowing through my veins, I began to dance a little in my seat like a grandma and people watch. Immediately I noticed these absolutely STUNNING women, each with a bottle of Moet Chandon in front of them immersed in their social media world. Like dressed to the nines, each one looking effortlessly stunning than the next.

I resisted the strong urge to ask them what the hell they did for a living besides sit at brunch and take Snapchat videos of themselves lip syncing seductively to the music and flipping their hair (yes, that happened … like they didn’t talk to one another, that is ALL they did).

Everyone looked like they were “someone,” but a large part of me knew they were not, which made it all feel really sad. For example, the lady in the expensive-looking flowing skirt who I witnessed lift her leg up onto the bar and start to twerk … she wasn’t someone. But my god was trying. 

I happened to be on my way to the ladies room when she did this and had the unfortunate timing of seeing a good majority of her vagina. And I’m super sad to report that wasn’t the only unintentional vagina I saw that day. Sigh. 

Like I said, they were all Kardashian clones. Tight ass dresses with long flowing trenches over them. Crop tops with old school Tommy Hilfiger jean jackets over them paired with Adidas shell toes. Long ass t-shirts paired with thigh high boots and Kourtney Kardashian long locks. And it didn’t matter if you were 100 pounds of 500 pounds, you were wearing a crop top. I suppose it is a requirement in the state of NY. 

Me? Well, I wore black ripped skinnies, a lace top with a hint of witch, and a cool set of heels. To which the bouncer at this nightmare told me I looked, “comfortable.” COMFORTABLE. That’s when I almost removed my non-existant hoops, said, “this is considered stylish in Philly, sir!” like a moron, and had to leave.

I’ve never felt more uncool slash uncomfortable in my life. At one point I found myself painting dark matte lipstick on myself and contemplating taking off my camisole underneath my lace top to expose my lame bra and compete with these bitches. I didn’t because I woke up and realized, “self, you don’t live here, this isn’t you, and oh yeah, this doesn’t matter.” 

I still to this day can’t help but wonder, do these people work? Because if I got as rip roaring drunk as these people did on a Sunday before I had to work, Jesus Christ I would be dead. There would be no reviving my ass. I was dead for days after just trying to survive the whole ordeal. 

So there you have it. If your friend ever tries to talk you into going to a “brunch nightclub” when you’re half in the bag, run as far away as humanly possible. Give me my couch, sweats, Netflix, takeout, and a bottle of champagne, with a fucking glass to drink it out of. 

Behold! A Bitch Who Doesn’t Brunch

Screen Shot 2015-04-27 at 10.54.13 AMI hate making decisions. Especially, for some reason, right now. I’m blaming the explosion of allergies that is occurring. But I cannot make a decision to save my life. Do I want to organize my closet? Or do I want to watch a Will and Grace marathon? I’ll clean my closet :::gets to closet:::. Wait! This is a really good episode of Will and Grace (real life example) …back to the couch. Decisions are not currently my bag … baby (Austin Powers … still relevant). 

Hence why I loathe brunch. Now I know a bunch of city hipsters just threw their soy milk latte at their MacBook Pro screen … but it’s a fact. And it’s just a part of who I am. I am not a bitch who likes to brunch. There. I said it. I’m not a huge “Sunday Funday-er” and I hate the idea of breakfast and lunch merging into this beast of weird and overwhelming menu options. And here’s why:

7 a.m. – 12 p.m.: Breakfast 

12 p.m.-5 p.m.: Lunch

5 p.m. to 10 p.m.: Dinner

BRUNCH ISN’T REAL. 

Do I like the idea of day drinking? Umm it’s one of my most favorite things in the whole world. But why do I need to go to some snotty cafe or restaurant at noon on a weekend to have mimosas to do so? The answer is you do not. Day drinking can happen even if the word “brunch” isn’t in front of it. In fact, I think the word “brunch” was just invented for prude people who think day drinking was made up by the devil, and by simply adding a non-word to cover up their love for day drinking, they think they are better people than the ones who openly get their day drink on. 

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And there is a reason why I don’t fancy going to restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory. The menu is a fucking NOVEL. I literally start to make a pros and cons list of menu items. And when I finally pick something, I’m always let down. That shouldn’t happen at a restaurant. So why would I put myself in a situation where I had to choose between delicious, scrumptious and mouth watering pancakes or a big ol’ meaty burger with fries that make angels cry? It’s insanity, people, insanity! I want both. And now I’m fat. Thanks, brunch, thanks.  

Brunch has become the new black, I get it. I hear in New York City if you don’t do brunch, you literally aren’t a person … which reminds me even more why PHILLY RULES. But friends, if you ask me to brunch, I will politely decline. Ask me to breakfast! Seriously, I can’t remember the last time someone asked me to get breakfast on the weekend, probably because we are all too hungover to make it there. But hey, lunch is also an acceptable option, too. I adore lunch. Lunch rules. Sharing apps, having some cocktails, getting my carb on … it’s the best (man I’m getting hungry).

But when it comes to brunch, insert the biggest eye roll on the planet. What’s the next craze to hit the eating scene? Linner? “OMG you guys, let’s meet at 3:30 p.m. at Piere’s Sacred Bistro For Cool People and get our vodka and Red Bulls on with a Turkey Club Sandwich and a Steak!” No. Stop it. Maybe I’m old school, maybe I’m just a square, but brunch doesn’t fit into my vocab … at all. 

When I Got Hypnotized By Wen

Picture 2380One evening I had a little too much to drink at my friend’s house and decided to make the responsible (and RIGHT) decision to just crash on her couch … as much as I was craving the comfort and soothing feel of my own bed. I’ve learned if you continue drinking, your friends couch will feel like your own bed (until you wake up with a gnarly kink in your neck … just kidding “anonymous” friend, your couch is SUPER comfy … yay couch!)

I also spent the entire evening with the TV on, because who knows what kind of ghosts my friends house has, am I right? Just kidding … kind of :::shifty eyes::: I clearly just fell asleep with the TV on because I passed out. I mean, details …

I did wake up to not only a massive wine headache, but a commercial that seemed to be lasting far too long, also known as an “infomercial,” something I hadn’t woken up early enough to see since I was 7 waiting for my cartoons to come on. This one specifically was for the Wen line of haircare products. In the world of infomercials, it is equivalent to Proactiv for your hair.

Every couple of minutes I would say to my hungover self, “good God, will this EVER end?!” Before I knew it, I had been watching this Wen informercial for like an hour, and by the time my friend had woken up and joined me in her living room, I just looked at her, eyes glazed and exclaimed, “I want to go to there,” pointing to the TV and the Wen models.

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All these famous people (C list famous, mind you … uh hello Alyssa Milano) going on and on about how Wen changed their lives, and don’t you want to be a “Wen girl,” too?! Models frolicking about with this fantastic hair. Heinous and almost comical pictures of women’s hair before Wen was used and after (which were CLEARLY enhanced … I’m no fool, Wen). I find it a LITTLE hard to believe that the “after” shot model had only used the Wen product. I mean maybe she did, but with a high tech stylist that not all of us have the pleasure of using every morning.

As much as I wanted to laugh or scoff and roll my eyes, as much as I desperately wished I had the energy to find the remote … I didn’t turn it off. Because apart of me was wondering, “wait?! Could I, Kate Concannon, be a Wen girl? And wait! Wonder if my hair could look as shiny and glorious as these models do?! Could I one day be walking down the street and just get this sudden urge to flip my hair in slow motion and have men fall to their needs asking me to marry them?! Everyone! To the Wen mobile!”

I’m convinced Wen must have hypnotized me or something. No, no … I’m actually certain it hypnotized me. I can only imagine this kind of hypnotism is reminiscent of what happened to Derek Zoolander when the song “Relax” came on. But instead of killing the Malaysian Prime Minister, I needed to make my hair super soft and smooth … model-style.

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Apart of me to this day still wants to log on to the website and get my Wen on. But the bigger, more logical side of my brain knows that when I get the product it will probably be the size of a hotel bottle of body wash and contain glorified conditioner, which will end up collecting dust underneath my bathroom sink.

Listen, infomercials are a thing, I get it. But perhaps just make them less phony. Perhaps make them live so I can see you didn’t significantly Photoshop the “before” pics to make me want to invest in your product so much I will feel like I will die without it. I know what you’re up to brands, I’m on to you.

But lesson learned here, kids … plain and simple: don’t watch informercials hungover. Just don’t do it. Say no. Embrace the ghosts in your friends home when you have too much to drink and keep the TV off.

Side note: I still to this day never became a Wen Girl and I SHANT, I say, I SHANT!

Wear Protection At Sample Sales

09981f45a262.previewI’ve never been a competitive person. I’ve never even been on an athletic team, and was only a cheerleader in middle school (shocking, I know, right? Not really … I just wanted to be Britney Spears) simply because there were no cuts. I don’t even like watching competitive sports on TV or shows like Survivor. Competing brings out an uber ugly side of people that horrifies me. Having people screaming and being insanely mean for the sake of “winning” doesn’t sound delightful, am I right?

As an adult, competition shows its ugly face in weird ways, not just on sporting fields or whatever the hell you call it. In the office, over men, and what I’m really here to talk about, at sample sales. Oh yes, cue the lightning bolts and scary music, kids.

You would think getting the opportunity to go to a sample sale would be music to my ears, but wrong, sir! You’re wrong! I’ve only attended one, and one was enough for me. It isn’t all tea and crumpets as women in white gloves casually review the merchandise at hand with classical music playing in the background. Oh no. Ladies, or lack their of, are there to bring home the gold, the most spectacular merchandise for the most spectacular price, and they will do anything and everything to make that happen.

These broads bring their A-game and have no qualms with taking a bitch down for some marked down Fendi. They mine as well be wearing protective gear, mouth guards and all, as throwing ‘bows, and not giving a shit for the sake of human kind is all acceptable on this fashion field.

Nothing makes me cringe more than seeing two women fighting in public. Scratch that. Two women fighting in public over clothing and accessories. And at sample sales, especially the big boys like Barneys and Urban Outfitters, the gloves are off to get the goods. Shoving, not saying “excuse me,” hair pulling, cursing, grabbing merchandise out of bins like tomorrow an asteroid is about to strike and the only thing that will save their families is marked down hipster clothing, are all things you are more than likely to see.

Sure, the idea of getting couture for a quarter of the price makes my heart sing. It really does. But having to deal with women who throw their manners to the wind and will say anything and do anything for a good deal isn’t my bag. In fact, keep the bag. You win, crazy lady. No need to make me cry in order to rip the marked down Marc Jacobs out of my hand. Take it. Got enough problems, thanks.
I dare any of you sample sale jocks to take a look at yourself while you are preparing to give the girl eying up the same marked down Theory jacket as you a bloody nose and see how you look. I double dog dare ya.

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Bad Juju, Be Gone

Photo credit: http://www.designworklife.com/2012/08/17/the-dark-arts/
Photo credit: http://www.designworklife.com/2012/08/17/the-dark-arts/

I am, truly, a very superstitious person. I knock on wood, throw salt over my right shoulder, I never count my chickens before the hatch … it all just freaks me out.

But the worst is when you buy something and come to find that it is a hex. Now I know you are probably thinking, this chick is crazytown, which I totally get, I think that about myself, sometimes, too. But I have to admit, there are a few pieces of clothing and accessories that I refuse to wear because something always goes wrong when I wear them. Hence they are a hex and should be burned … but are too pretty to be set ablaze. So I just keep them in my possession and stare at them longingly.

Most recently it has been a pair of shoes. I won’t blow up their spot, because truly they are so pretty and so fantastic … and I covet them. But in the two times I’ve worn them, everything has gone to shit.

For example, one of the biggest wardrobe malfunctions I have ever encountered, leaving me basically naked for the evening, happened when I rocked those shoes … or well, attempted to rock them. THEN an opportunity that sent me to the moon and back with happiness unraveled before my eyes whilst wearing them. When I got home from said opportunity unraveling, I threw them against the wall … hard. Like really, REALLY hard. It felt good.

To the non-superstitious person, there is no correlation. They would still rock these amazing shoes until the cows came home. For someone like myself, they are dead to me. I’m not saying these shoes caused all of these bad things to happen. In fact, maybe they have no involvement what-so-ever. The fact is, the idea of walking this Earth in said shoes with all that bad juju surrounding them, and with the potential for other things to go to shit … doesn’t seem like something I’m down for.

Unfortunately it isn’t just the shoes, I have really nice pieces of jewelry I refuse to wear … or outfits that traditionally bring bad things to my life that now hang in my closet neglected and probably a little dusty, all because EVERY time I wear them, negativity follows. I know, I know … #SuperstitiousPeopleProblems, waahhh, boo-frickity-hoo, but it sucks when you pour your hard-earned cash into your closet only to find a black cloud follows said piece.

Weird, right? I know … I should probably see someone about this. They are inanimate objects, for crying out loud. But regardless, no one wants to rock something that reminds them of truly unsavory memories, right? Or with the potential of a black cloud to follow. Better safe than sorry is what I always say.

:::Sigh::: I should call a priest.

Flip Flops … Yawn.

flip-flop-for-the-fischers-001I don’t think I’ve invested in a pair of flip flops since I was in college, and they were used strictly for shower shoes. Now I know, people will contest that a pair of flip flops defines summer and is a staple that every woman should have. To comment back on that statement, all I have for you is a big ol’ drawn out yawn. I know. I’m a freak.

There’s a reason why I haven’t purchased flip flops in :::mumbles::: years. They straight up bore me to death. And the sound they make when you walk is ridiculously annoying. Nothing makes me want to take a nap more than standing at the “wall of flip flops” at Old Navy as women excitedly snatch up every color of the rainbow. How do you choose a color?! Seriously. All you have to work with is a color, since, really, there is nothing much more to them, and quite frankly I don’t want to stand there having an anxiety attack over what color blue to buy. And then I realize I loathe color and call the whole thing off.

Unfortunately I find myself in a predicament where I need to invest in a pair of flops :::sigh::: In 2 weeks I will be going off the grid in an attempt to relax on vacation. So I’m trying to make that week as stress-free as possible. If I’m running to the beach, need to take the dog out, want to go drunkenly dance somewhere other than my rental house, a pair of flops sounds like a good idea instead of spending time putting my gladiators on (although I covet them). But can I tell you, my search for a cool pair of flops has been nothing but an annoyance.

All of them are so basic, or have some weird ugly design or have a 3 inch platform, or say some awful shit like “Hottie!”, or are waaaaaaaay over priced, again, for a thing of rubber on my feet I’m using to walk on (Havaianas, I’m looking at you). If I’m going to spend $45, I’m going to buy a pair of gladiators, not some yawn-worthy pair of flops I will probably end up burning by the end of summer. I’ve literally scoured all of ShopStyle.com and every other “trendy” site for an outlandishly cool pair of flops for a decent price, and they cannot be found. Like can a sister get a pair of flops with studs or skulls on them, or something?!

True, my search wasn’t a total bust. ModCloth is on their game with cool flops, but alas, my size was out of stock in all of the flops I desired. Besides that, the only other ones I fell head over heels for, of course, were the Valentino rockstud PVC thong sandal. Literally drool-worthy. But if I won’t spend $45 on a pair of flops, I sure as balls won’t be spending $295. Seriously, like I know you’re Valentino and all, but come now. They are damn flop flops.

I’m torn on what to do and running out of time to make a decision. Do I cave and just buy the most basic flop I can find, and deal with the yawning and bordem, or do I stick to my guns and just continue to rock gladiators to the beach … which, I imagine, will be uber annoying. Or who knows, maybe I’ll become one with nature and not wear any shoes. OR, become a total princess and wear heels to the beach. What do you think?

Listen, if you know of a place were I can find a sweet pair of flops that won’t drain my bank account, send that info my way as soon as humanly possibly. Until then, my search continues.

Yawn.