For three months my eyes have been bothering me. Everything looks vague. Not fuzzy or blurry. Vague. As if someone erased the lifeforce out of things I catch with my right side vision. Until this, I've had 20/20 vision for all 38 of my years.
I went to the opthamologist today. I expected her to tell me it's just stress and sleep deprivation, the curses of the harried mother. But after looking through endless patches of glass and metal and having puffs of air and flashes of bright light and the sharp pain of dilating drops directed into my pupils it's confirmed: I gotta wear glasses.
I chose an Anne Klein pair of pink-framed rectangle lensed glasses. I think they look intellectual and chi chi. I also got a pair of Versace black sunglasses and oooh la la are they hot. It all cost me an arm, a leg, and the rest of my vision. Now I have to sell a mountain of beauty suds to pay for this.
Looking on the bright side: At least I'll have first hand experience of the nuances of eye shadow and corrective vision.
My pupils still invade my eyeball, and it's difficult to read and type. I get my new shades on Thursday.
Most of my customers are middle-aged mothers with a couple exceptions:
Kathy is a young mother, certainly no older than twenty-two, with a blonde haired demon child of two on her hip, and another on the way. I never heard a toddler scream so much. His name is Rickie and this morning he grabbed my tote bag and emptied everything on the floor while I showed Kathy the selection of lipstick samples I carried.
"Rickie! Rickie! Stop it!" Kathy gave him a sharp glare but he didn't notice and he didn't stop. I had to literally wrestle the bag out of his hands, and when I got home I found cheeze doodle stains all over the handles. Damn. The two times I've met with them I wanted to slap them both. But the customer is always right! Kathy orders bubblebath and coral lipgloss and Black Suede cologne for her husband, a construction worker.
On the other side of the bell curve is Barbie. She's 80 years old and has clearly had a face lift (or two! or three!) and wears an auburn pageboy wig and dark Dolce and Gabbana glasses. When she first met me at her condo patio, she wore a hot pink babydoll t-shirt with "I dated Ashton" written on the chest. Her first order was over two hundred bucks, two full bags of creams and colors and the Daisy Floral Purse and Slides and three giftie items.
Barbie used to write restaurant reviews, and her wit is biting and a bit dark. I like her.
Look, I'm a regular person with regular features and slightly overweight and late thirty-something in age. I'm no beauty. I can't promise the cam will ever show my full bod. However, the purpose of this blog is to tell the Real Truth about my days as an Avon Lady.
Today's cam shot is my left foot! I'm wearing the Winnie the Pooh flower flip flops sold in the current brochure, and I've painted the toes with the nail color in "Tycoon."
This month's Jane magazine has a full page photo of rocker Deborah Harry, and an accompanying column describing her attempt at being an Avon Lady for a day. See page 51 for the whole sordid story.
She loves the nailpolish, concealer, and Color Twist Lip Gloss, and wants to make her roadies carry her supplies door to door.
