Females just gotta deal with the way they look!
Who: Grace
Where: her apartment
When: This morning
Complete
Ouch. Just. Ouch.
Major headache.
Waaay too many bottles of wine. She left them where they were, at the bottom of the sofa where she had fallen asleep and dragged herself into the shower. Managing to wash up without drowning herself, she chanced a look in the mirror. Terrible.
In reality, Grace just looked tired. But to the self-critical female eye, she felt she looked like the epitome of SHIT. S-H-I-T, shit.
I need makeup, she told herself. This was a rare occasion. Grace loved dressing people up--when she was in high school, she got a job at a beauty parlor and while not so inclined as to spend hours putting foundation on herself, loved trying out the techniques she learned on her friends. Grace tended to put the 'ambush' in 'ambush makeover.' But hey, she was good at it, so what right did anyone have to complain? Besides, she never meant it in a bad way, if a friend complained about her hair, Grace would grab special shampoo and conditioner and maybe some Hot Tools and totally remodel it. A mark of a good girlfriend, come on. 'Snot like her girlfriends didn't love her enough not to tell her when she looked like shit.
Damn, they'd have a field day with me now, she mused, rummaging around her bedroom. Not so inclined to wearing makeup besides the occasional lipstick or blush, the latter usually for public speaking events so that her face didn't show up pasty white under the harsh lights, she really didn't have much makeup on call. But she felt like she totally needed it now.
Where was the supportive boyfriend telling you "You're beautiful," when you needed him?
These thoughts running painfully through her tired and very painful mind, she grabbed a hold of some cream, and staring intently into the mirror, began to apply some under her eyes. Great, now she was shaping herself to be like some sort of Barbie doll. As much as Grace wanted to look pretty and at least halfway decent, she didn't want to look like some sort of fake plastic doll that spent all her time on her looks. Her hand halfway to her face, she thought. Did she really need to put this on?
Ouch. Too much thinking.
She grabbed some Ponds makeup removing wipes and setting the cream down, wandered into the bathroom to once again splash some water on her face, followed by a nice application of cold cream for moisturizing purposes. Well, she felt halfway decent now. She walked out, chancing a look at the clock: 7 AM. Not too shabby, she had time.
First things first, where was her goddamn speech?
On her kitchen counter under a bright flourescent pink Post-It labelled, SPEECH. DO NOT FORGET OR DIE. Grace knew how she got before these things. Picking up her paper, she flipped through the notes rapidly, scrunching her nose up as she did so. It had been a while since she had done a lecture on a topic along these lines: Human Yearning. She whispered a small prayer that her speech didn't sound pathetic or fake, her words were her own and she genuinely meant them, that's gotta count for something.
Advil. Need Advil. Or Tylenol. Her brain was begging her. Anything, improvise. Wandering into the bathroom for the third time that morning, she reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out some Tylenol. This should do it, she thought, swallowing one.
Coffee. Yeah, that would be nice. Except she was in no mood to make it. Maybe she'd drive by Starbuck's, there was only one Starbuck's every single BLOCK. Starbuck's sounds nice... maybe a mocha frap. Mhm.
Get dressed. Okay, I can do that, Grace figured. Sighing, she sauntered into her bedroom, seeing the clothes she laid out for herself today. Anal about her schedule to a T, she usually had everything set and planned for the next day from clothing to where she was going to head for dinner. Surprises unnerved her. Not entirely unwelcome, but a set off from her schedule unwittingly led her to reforming a brand-new schedule.
Grace operated with routines. Getting drunk on her sofa last night was NOT a routine, and therefore a hangover was not in plan. But hey, she could improvise. She had time.
Dressed nicely, she looked into the mirror for her hair. Up or down? Clip or rubber band? Headband? No, too schoolgirlish. She settled for just brushing it out twice and letting it hang around her face. It wasn't too bad. She'd take a comb and maybe a clip if she wanted to change it at work. Putting these in her bag she did a double-take despite her aching head and concluded: Yep, I'm ready.
Goddamn lecture. Why the hell did she volunteer? Well, because she owed Vanden. And she did, she really did. After all, how angry at Vanden could Grace get? How angry at Vanden could Grace EVER get? Sure she was upset that Vanden had decided to proposition Jack, but she had no claim over him. And was, "you told him I was sleeping around, you whore!" really a valid argument?
She'd figure this all out when the painkiller kicked in.
Painkiller. Pack the Tylenol. Check.
Keys, cell phone, wallet, purse? Check, check, check, aaaaand, check. She was all set.
Minus the hangover, it was just an ordinary morning for Grace. A normal morning, before all this with Jack, or even Johnny. Her habit of having at least partial control over her environment and planning everything out beforehand stemmed back to her childhood, where her parents, once she became old enough to spell 'organization,' made clear to her that if she missed school or was late, too bad, your problem. No one's gonna get on your ass when you're in college or in the real world.
And quite frankly, Grace liked it that way.
Normalcy was nice. Taking care of herself, this was normal. This was good.
Time for work.
Where: her apartment
When: This morning
Complete
Ouch. Just. Ouch.
Major headache.
Waaay too many bottles of wine. She left them where they were, at the bottom of the sofa where she had fallen asleep and dragged herself into the shower. Managing to wash up without drowning herself, she chanced a look in the mirror. Terrible.
In reality, Grace just looked tired. But to the self-critical female eye, she felt she looked like the epitome of SHIT. S-H-I-T, shit.
I need makeup, she told herself. This was a rare occasion. Grace loved dressing people up--when she was in high school, she got a job at a beauty parlor and while not so inclined as to spend hours putting foundation on herself, loved trying out the techniques she learned on her friends. Grace tended to put the 'ambush' in 'ambush makeover.' But hey, she was good at it, so what right did anyone have to complain? Besides, she never meant it in a bad way, if a friend complained about her hair, Grace would grab special shampoo and conditioner and maybe some Hot Tools and totally remodel it. A mark of a good girlfriend, come on. 'Snot like her girlfriends didn't love her enough not to tell her when she looked like shit.
Damn, they'd have a field day with me now, she mused, rummaging around her bedroom. Not so inclined to wearing makeup besides the occasional lipstick or blush, the latter usually for public speaking events so that her face didn't show up pasty white under the harsh lights, she really didn't have much makeup on call. But she felt like she totally needed it now.
Where was the supportive boyfriend telling you "You're beautiful," when you needed him?
These thoughts running painfully through her tired and very painful mind, she grabbed a hold of some cream, and staring intently into the mirror, began to apply some under her eyes. Great, now she was shaping herself to be like some sort of Barbie doll. As much as Grace wanted to look pretty and at least halfway decent, she didn't want to look like some sort of fake plastic doll that spent all her time on her looks. Her hand halfway to her face, she thought. Did she really need to put this on?
Ouch. Too much thinking.
She grabbed some Ponds makeup removing wipes and setting the cream down, wandered into the bathroom to once again splash some water on her face, followed by a nice application of cold cream for moisturizing purposes. Well, she felt halfway decent now. She walked out, chancing a look at the clock: 7 AM. Not too shabby, she had time.
First things first, where was her goddamn speech?
On her kitchen counter under a bright flourescent pink Post-It labelled, SPEECH. DO NOT FORGET OR DIE. Grace knew how she got before these things. Picking up her paper, she flipped through the notes rapidly, scrunching her nose up as she did so. It had been a while since she had done a lecture on a topic along these lines: Human Yearning. She whispered a small prayer that her speech didn't sound pathetic or fake, her words were her own and she genuinely meant them, that's gotta count for something.
Advil. Need Advil. Or Tylenol. Her brain was begging her. Anything, improvise. Wandering into the bathroom for the third time that morning, she reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out some Tylenol. This should do it, she thought, swallowing one.
Coffee. Yeah, that would be nice. Except she was in no mood to make it. Maybe she'd drive by Starbuck's, there was only one Starbuck's every single BLOCK. Starbuck's sounds nice... maybe a mocha frap. Mhm.
Get dressed. Okay, I can do that, Grace figured. Sighing, she sauntered into her bedroom, seeing the clothes she laid out for herself today. Anal about her schedule to a T, she usually had everything set and planned for the next day from clothing to where she was going to head for dinner. Surprises unnerved her. Not entirely unwelcome, but a set off from her schedule unwittingly led her to reforming a brand-new schedule.
Grace operated with routines. Getting drunk on her sofa last night was NOT a routine, and therefore a hangover was not in plan. But hey, she could improvise. She had time.
Dressed nicely, she looked into the mirror for her hair. Up or down? Clip or rubber band? Headband? No, too schoolgirlish. She settled for just brushing it out twice and letting it hang around her face. It wasn't too bad. She'd take a comb and maybe a clip if she wanted to change it at work. Putting these in her bag she did a double-take despite her aching head and concluded: Yep, I'm ready.
Goddamn lecture. Why the hell did she volunteer? Well, because she owed Vanden. And she did, she really did. After all, how angry at Vanden could Grace get? How angry at Vanden could Grace EVER get? Sure she was upset that Vanden had decided to proposition Jack, but she had no claim over him. And was, "you told him I was sleeping around, you whore!" really a valid argument?
She'd figure this all out when the painkiller kicked in.
Painkiller. Pack the Tylenol. Check.
Keys, cell phone, wallet, purse? Check, check, check, aaaaand, check. She was all set.
Minus the hangover, it was just an ordinary morning for Grace. A normal morning, before all this with Jack, or even Johnny. Her habit of having at least partial control over her environment and planning everything out beforehand stemmed back to her childhood, where her parents, once she became old enough to spell 'organization,' made clear to her that if she missed school or was late, too bad, your problem. No one's gonna get on your ass when you're in college or in the real world.
And quite frankly, Grace liked it that way.
Normalcy was nice. Taking care of herself, this was normal. This was good.
Time for work.