Apparently This Matters: Twitter beauty party
There was a pretty epic party on Wednesday night. You probably weren't there.
But don't take it personally. We can't all be awesome. Naturally, of course, I was present, showing up casually late because it's what awesome people do at epic parties. That, and defile the mashed potatoes.
Granted, this particular epic party was held on Twitter. And it was hosted by CVS. And, technically, everybody was invited.
Thus, I'm suddenly now beginning to question my awesomeness.
Me: "Am I awesome?"
Me: "Not really."
Me: "I appreciate your honesty."
Me: "Whatever, nerd."
OK, so maybe it's not Ibiza, but there was a popular online party hosted by the CVS Beauty Club -- yes, that exists -- to promote the pharmacy's cosmetic offerings via social media. And for a good hour or so during the big digital soiree, the hashtag was a leading trend.
Hurrah! Victory for the marketing department! Treat yourself to some hooker makeup.
Not surprisingly, however, a random dude eventually entered the conversation and was instantly confused.
@TheClassyMan wrote: "This is a joke right?"
Not a joke. CVS really managed to get people talking about and participating in their virtual Twitter party, which is pretty amazing. But how exactly does something like this work?
Basically, I guess a Twitter party is just like any other party. People talk. Strangers mingle. Except there's no guacamole, and if you happen to do a keg stand, it's not because everybody else was doing one. It's because you're a degenerate alcoholic.
"Wooooo! Thirty seconds! I rule! And now I have to fold the laundry ... and do other stuff because I'm home alone with my computer ... drinking ... from a keg. Woooooo."
Personally speaking, the most appealing aspect of a digital Twitter party is that I only have 140 characters to completely embarrass myself. Which, I suppose, is quite more than enough.
"Hi. I'm Jarrett. I use Beano."
See? Minimal damage.
But let's get back to this beauty club.
Essentially, anyone can join for free to get periodic discounts and rewards on various CVS cosmetics. The online information wasn't exactly clear, though, as to whether Beano qualifies. Its inclusion, however, more or less determines my interest in signing up.
I'm all about discounts and Twitter parties and Beano and maybe even a touch of mascara when I'm feeling pretty, but I'm a little uncomfortable that my beloved CVS actually calls this a "club." Clubs have to have standards, and I simply can't appreciate any exclusive organization that doesn't charge excessive dues and/or base one's membership on blatant superficiality.
That's why I joined a fraternity.
Look, I know I didn't offer the American University chapter of Delta Chi anything in terms of status, and I'm pretty sure I lowered their overall combined GPA by at least a full point, but I was more than willing to pay the yearly fees. And as a bonus, I could pretty easily be talked into running around the party wearing nothing but a strategically placed sock.
(Had there been cell phone cameras in the late 90s, I'd currently be living in Mongolia.)
At the CVS Beauty Club, there are no initiation fees. No dues. And technically, I suppose, even Nick Nolte could join. It's that easy.
But for those of us who don't use cosmetics or, at the very least, aren't planning on going to the Gathering of the Juggalos, there's probably no real need to apply. We're fine the way we are. Perfect fives.
Unless, of course, you really just want to experiment with ointments and colors and masks. In which case, by all means join the CVS Beauty Club and start saving. Hell, go nuts!
Treat yourself to some hooker makeup.
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