I have to confess, after the whole Birchbox disappointment this month, I was feeling rather discouraged by the treats-in-the-mail concept. Perhaps, no matter how many boxes I check to indicate that my skin is dry and my hair is newborn-fine and I hate lip gloss, these companies with suspiciously chipper social media presences dgaf.
My dream box, the one that understands me? Might not be out there. Admittedly the notion that some massive entity could “personalize” a carton of crap and shuttle it to my front porch every month does seem idiotic when I devote more than 30 seconds to thinking about it.
I could quit them all, I knew, and considered. One down, three to go. I don’t think anyone would lose any sleep over the lack of coverage here on Skirt.
By the time I was opening up the Birchbox letdown, Ipsy had sent a flurry of emails over the fact that I was now OFF THE WAITLIST!! and they were sending my first box for April. My refusal to spam everyone on my Facebook friend list finally won out over Ipsy’s lust for my Alexander Hamilton.
Oh, when’s it going to be here? I wanted to know, and clicked the Your Order Has Shipped confirmation. When the message loaded, I caught a glimpse of pointy objects shooting up from the bottom of the page: See What’s In Your Ipsy GlamBag!
I closed it like an email you realize is phishing your credit card digits.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I don’t want to know what’s in my GlamBag! Most of the reason that I’m doing this at all is because I LOVE SURPRISES. Especially the ones that don’t show up as Washington Post news alerts on my phone as precursors to doomsday. I was the kid (probably the only kid) who would take pains not to look in closets or drawers at Christmas because I didn’t want to spoil the tantalizing unknown on the big day. When I tore open that paper, I wanted to actually feel the excitement instead of faking it for appearances. I LIKE TO FEEL MY FEELINGS.
So, dodging a spoiler bomb, I didn’t track every movement of my package and it showed up like mail used to: pretty much expected but not precisely. But girl, with an entrance.
I love shipping containers that celebrate themselves. Because sometimes it’s not JUST the inside that counts.
What else is cute? Ipsy packages their treats in an honest-to-blog bag, meaning that if you’re the surprise-inclined type like me, you can unzip and slowly remove each item one by one like a Christmas stocking. Or you could read your whole spoiler email and know exactly what’s inside and dump it all over the floor. I bet you don’t string your string cheese, either.
The bag itself is super whimsical and seems like the excuse to make me by the Bernie Dexter Ticket to Ride Kelly Dress. I am a sucker for purses that look like things that aren’t purses.
My first bag-pull was this SkinFix foaming cleanser, which lived up to the name and frothed up something lovely for my nightly face-wash. My Burt’s Bees wipes haven’t been as loved by my skin lately, so this fresh-feeling splash may be my new, happily fragrance free replacement.
Josie Maran was featured in my March Sephora Play bag, in a fancy eye setting cream deal that was too fussy for me to try out yet. But face moisturizer is something I can get on board, and this light, ethereal, also fragrance free contender is also in line to edge out my Burt’s Bees ho-hum nighttime regimen. I’ve had my cursor over the Purchase button for a solid 48 hours. I’m just trying to be good though, you know? A responsible adult, if you will.
ColourPop Eye Gel Liner! I am a forever student of the Cat-Eye, and I love any and all extra tools for my pursuit. This liner has an extremely fine point, which is indispensable when you’re trying to get those end-tics to look right. I’m very okay with this inclusion.
A nice, densely pigmented basic goldy-brown eyeshadow. Neat!
But this. Pulling this out of my bag sent a true audible “gasp!!! OMG NO WAY” through our little house.
A true and authentic Lisa Frank blush brush.
My greatest regret during my time in Tucson was failing to make the drive down to the airport to see the Lisa Frank headquarters and the broken unicorn statue that is said to hold court in the parking lot. I did interrogate a coworker who had a short stint there about all points mentioned in this Jezebel article. I remember every piece of Lisa Frank I owned in the 90’s, from the STICKERS! STICKERS! STICKERS! box that I haven’t seen in decades to the 5th grade cheerleading binder I just recovered from my mom’s house in immaculate condition (complete with my projects for the Immigration, Industrial Revolution, Colonial America and Civil War class units). This is the treasure I didn’t know I needed and didn’t dream existed.
And it’s exactly what I dreamed of from these dumb little boxes, that serendipitous sense of knowing me better than I know myself. Which is, of course, delusional. But harmless. Which is a sensation that we could all use right now–a happy, welcome surprise.