few weeks ago I became obsessed–OBSESSED–with what makeup I should have and what perfume I should wear. Please note that I gave up wearing anything but tinted moisturizer and a little mascara years ago. (I partially blame What Not To Wear, which I watch daily during my lazy days of summer right now. Damn you Stacy and Clinton! Oh wait, I kinda want to get martinis with you guys.) At any rate, I called up Reporter Girl–both a sound, reasonable woman who rarely wears a lot of makeup and knows one shouldn’t spend $30 on lipgloss, and at the same time, a woman who will squeal over super sparkly, glassy lipgloss that costs $30 but is perfect–and said we had to go shopping. She squealed.

We headed to Georgetown on a bloody hot Saturday morning. Now, both of us hate Georgetown but also know you’re not going to go many other places that have a Dean and Deluca for a quick bite and ten cosmetics shops. The MAC store there freaks me out, because the stylists there always try to get you to buy precisely what you don’t want (thank you, no, I don’t want shiny blue-black lipstick right now, but yes, fabulous concept), so we dodged that store. Then we went to Sephora. I love Sephora for when I need specific stuff; it’s like a huge department store of things to make you smell and look better than I did on that Saturday morning. However, this particular location is hit-or-miss. The selection seems to have been whittled down, so I left with some fancy-pants body scrub that smells like sugar and lemons (twee!) and some gorgeous perfume.

Yet, I still needed color: eye shadow, lipstick/gloss, etc. For someone who wears so little make up, you may find it shocking to know that I once sold a certain cosmetics line via parties. (No, I never wore a little pink suit.) I know my makeup. I know what looks good on me, I know what each of those crazy-ass brushes does and why you actually DO need all those crazy-ass brushes if you want to make your makeup look nice and not slathered on, and I know what I like and I don’t like. As the prospects for finding what I wanted dimmed, we made the executive decision to go to a certain high-end boutique.

I navigate the Dupont Circle branch of this store regularly, as it’s close to home and sells two things that I use regularly. Yet that branch is usually filled with women who won’t give me the time of day–even if I don’t look like a starving grad student. Apparently one must wear too much perfume, have overprocessed hair, a fake tan and ugly but expensive clothes to get noticed there. The only time I haven’t had a problem in that store is when men were working. So, as we hovered outside the Georgetown branch of the store, we noticed that there were TWO men working. The odds were in our favor.

While the women–less of the attitude than Dupont Circle, but still some–giggled and helped some awful woman, we sauntered in, and one of the men greeted us. Apparently they were doing makeup with one line’s makeup artist, and would we like one? SURE. At this point, Reporter Girl talks to the one man while the the makeup artist–dressed in gothic black tight clothes and a twee little mohawk, more attitude than Christian from Project Runway, and more lipgloss than I’d seen on anyone in a long time–sits me down. He asked what I was looking for and I said a daytime special occasion. “Wedding?” He asked. “Yeah,” I said.

At this point I see Reporter Girl conspiring with the other guy. He looks shocked and then over and Reporter Girl makes some hand motions. I almost get irritated but the guy looks all giddy. I found out later the conversation went something like this.

Him: “Oh, is it a wedding?”

Her: “Yeah.”

Him: “She in it?”

Her: “No, it’s hers.”

[Note: This is why you do not blog when brutally hungover from prosecco, beer, and chocolate cupcakes with penises on them.  I *knew* there was more to the story, but when I wrote the post, I blanked.  Luckily, Reporter Girl commented!  Reason WHY there was more to the story follows]

Him: So, it’s her wedding? Why didn’t you say so?

Her: Because it’s a six-people-and-a-judge-on-a-cliff-somewhere wedding. No bridesmaids. No guests. And then a giant party later. Much later.

Him: (Blinks. Repeatedly.  Reporter Girl sincerely thought smoke was going to come out of his ears as his brain melted down.)

As Mr. Twee Mohawk does up my eyes and lips–and does a fantastic job–I think he starts to realize that it’s my wedding, I’m not 16, and I actually know a thing or two about makeup, even though I was wearing Birkenstocks and my mod, sherbert-colored shift. The women are still giggling and shifting paperwork and talking to some 40-year-old woman dressed like she’s 20 and looking like she’s 50. But these two guys chatted with us, gave us some more tips, helped me pick out some fantastic and appropriate shades that are “me” and not overdone, and sent us on our merry way with a big fat sale to their credit.

Lessons: When going into high end boutiques (make-up or otherwise), test the waters first. Find the dude(s). They may like you because you, like them, were made fun of a lot in middle school for being “not like everyone else”. Be nice. Go with backup. Stand your ground. And, like Stacy and Clinton always say, “Don’t be afraid of color.”  [And don't blog when hungover.]

So now, I have gone from obsessing about makeup, to obsessing about, of all things…. John’s wedding present. And that is for another post. Probably after he gets it.

A teaser: Dear cute little shop in Leesburg, If you advertise on your website that your hours are certain times and you’re open on a day, you should not just take off for vacation and not explain that on your website, so that someone doesn’t drive all the frick way to Leesburg when she has other stuff to do only to find a little sign that says “closed till Tuesday.” Because then that said someone gets a migraine (first one in about six months!!!) and starts flipping. A. Bitch.

Thank you Reporter Girl!  This is why you are a journalist.  You remember facts.