Blogopera #6 - First Date
Monday, June 9, 2008
This is #6 in a fictional series, to read in succession, begin with #1
“Well, there is a beautiful beach about an hour south of here, it’s small and not many people know about it so it’s quiet, water’s warm. I was thinking I could go home, shower, get some things together and pick you up in say, two hours?”
“That sounds good.” And it did. Too many of my last Saturdays had been spent cleaning the house for nobody but myself, ironing sheets, folding towels into perfect thirds, organizing my closets by color and other things I suppose fill the time of slightly ocd girls just waiting to be asked to the beach.
“Here,” he said as he finished up his food, let me help you clean up and then I’ll get going.”
“Its ok Dylan, I’ll clean up.”
“Ok,” he said, “let’s see, it’s almost eight-thirty, I’ll be here ten-thirtyish to get you.”
“What do I need to bring?”
“Just you, your suit and something a little warm if it cools off.”
He went to go get the rest of his clothes, keys and things from my bedroom as I cleared our breakfast dishes. He popped into the kitchen.
“I’ll see you in a few okay?“ he asked as he swung an arm around my side and kissed me.
“I’ll be here,” I said as I watched him walk out the door.
____________________
After Dylan left I swept through the house like a tempest. I cleaned up and put fresh sheets on the bed. I picked all the dead leaves off my neglected plants and threw away the week old flowers I had bought for myself that had shed most of their blooms and pollen in a circle around the vase.
I got into the shower and loofaed and sugar-scrubbed my body head to toe until my skin was well-exfoliated and shiny pink. I shaved, taking great care to catch any missing bits behind my ankles or strays on the back of my thighs. I masked my face and deep-conditioned my hair. I whitestripped my teeth and redid my only three day old pedicure. Never mind he had already seen me last night completely natural and unprepared, this was another day and not a sleep over but a date, thus, my complicated female grooming rituals followed.
I tried on every swimsuit I owned, narrowing it down to three which then had to be tried on again in a sort of runner up competition. I even considered an application of self-tanner but the lengthy process and potential unpredictable, disastrous results convinced me better.
I packed a beach bag with a towel and my favorite beach blanket, a padded batik-style Indian sheet, a once crisp, cerulean blue now sun-bleached and muted. I had purchased it years before and it unfolded to the perfect size for two people to bask on.
All this done and it was only nine-thirty. I still had an hour before he’d be back. I tried to relax but I couldn’t sit still. I was still in reeling from last night. Not only my prompt but his acceptance and the prospect of today. Last night was spontaneous, unexpected, I didn’t even have time to worry or over think things. But today, the first inklings of expectation were building, this was a date. Would it go well? Would there be more? What about the fact that we had already been intimate, so soon, where did that fit in? Was he dating other people? Was I, if the opportunity presented itself? Was he the sort of person I could see myself with for more than an evening of fun and a day of sun?
I cautioned myself not get ahead of things, to just enjoy that I had romantic plans for a Saturday afternoon and be content to see how it all unfolded. I worried like this for almost a half an hour. I finished getting ready and did a final check before he got back, brushing my teeth another time. I had my bikini on with a sundress over it and sandals. My hair was extra shiny, thank you deep conditioner, and I had only a little makeup on, perfect for the beach. I had my bag, sunscreen and sunglasses. It was going to be fine, I was going to have fun. The words worked to calm me down.
Ten thirty came and went and a small sense of dread began to creep in. I am a strictly punctual person, in fact, typically I am early and will run an errand or make a phone call until the agreed upon event time. Maybe it’s the Midwestern in me or the anal-retentive demand to do exactly what I say I will. This being the case, I have never, in my almost ten years in Southern California gotten used to the loose definitions of on-time or the casualness with which people here come and go.
It probably has a lot to do with the potential huge delays caused by traffic congestion and how this has just conditioned people here to view time as more relative to other things. To me ten minutes seems like running a bit late, fifteen minutes would, etiquette speaking, require a phone call, twenty minutes equals bad planning and over twenty and I’m sure to begin to panic.
It was only ten-forty-five but I realized after last night, I was unsure as to where this was headed. Did he change his mind? Did the haze of the morning after wear off leaving him regretting last night and today’s hasty invitation? I needed to stop this, I thought, this was insecurity rearing its ugly head, nothing more. I reassured myself. He’s planned a nice afternoon, he wanted to see me right away, he stayed for breakfast, he was the one that suggested plans. I reminded myself of all these things trying to inject a bit of confidence.
It was then that I heard a knock at my door.
Sarah Larson, He's Just Not That Into You, Filed Under Who Cares
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Ladies, George Clooney is officially available again, blech, sorry I just threw up in my mouth a little. He and longtime girlfriend(almost a year) Sarah Larson have parted ways.
I'm sure Harper's is peeing their pants with excitement to see how many more copies they are going to sell now.
Can I speak to Amanda Huginkiss?
Cha-Cha Friday
Friday, June 6, 2008
Since it's 'Cha-Cha' Friday at the spa, I'll be working until late evening making the women of Southern CA hair free so minimal time to post. I will, however, leave you with another installment of Blogopera. And for those of you who inquired, my face is doing much better 2 days after the laser, still red but no more hamburger. Have a great weekend and keep those comments and emails coming.
Blogopera #5 - There's Got to Be a Morning After
This is #5 in a fictional series, to read in succession, begin with #1
Blogopera #5/There's Got to Be a Morning After
My cell phone alarm rings from the other room, I’ve forgotten to shut it off. I relish for a moment that it is Saturday and I don’t have to work. I open my eyes and remembering last night, look next to me. Dylan is awake, gazing in my direction.
“About a half an hour.”
“I was enjoying watching you sleep.” he replied.
“Why,” I asked,” because it’s one of the few times my mouth’s not moving?”
“No”, he laughed, “have you heard that before?”
“No comment.”
“I was just enjoying a few minutes appreciating you without feeling like I’m staring.”
“But you were staring.” I say.
“Well,” he responded, ”it’s not really staring if someone’s not awake to feel stared at.”
“What is it then?”
“I told you,” he paused, “it’s appreciating.”
“Well, stop appreciating me, it’s weirding me out.” I laughed and playfully pushed his face in the other direction.
“Do you want some coffee?” I ask.
“No, I don’t touch the stuff.” he answered.
“Huh?” The coffee guy doesn’t drink coffee?
“I’m just kidding, I’d love some.”
“You hungry?” I ask, my own stomach begging for some nourishment after last night’s workout.
“Starving.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast,” I say and get up from the bed, pulling on my robe.
“Can I help?” he asked as he grabbed his pants from the floor and slid them on.
“Sure.”
In the kitchen, I delegate the coffee making to him. “Why don’t you make the coffee, you are after all, the expert.”
“I can do that, where is it”
“The coffee pot is in the corner,” I reply, “and the coffee and filters in the cabinet above your head,” I point above where he is standing.
He opens the cupboard door to find my crushed and rumpled up, misshapen filters probably gathering dust now that they’ve permanently eluded their protective plastic bag and my can of ‘club special’ store brand coffee. I am embarrassed by my low rent choice of coffee. I try to explain.
“It’s not that I like that coffee, it’s just more of the, you know, emergency coffee, the coffee I make when I don’t have time to go to the café or when I need to brew some for a dessert recipe or company’s over.”
“You serve this to company?” he asks eyebrows raised.
“I have.” I say cautiously like I may be further incriminating myself. Maybe I should have chosen my words more carefully. Take the ‘I do not recall ever having served that coffee to others’ line of response that so many politicians have used to successfully shirk responsibility.
“I won’t judge,” he says shaking his head to imply there is definitely judging going on.
“Thank you.”
I work on the omelette throwing two English muffins into the toaster.
“Butter, jam, peanut butter?” I inquire of him.
“Yes please.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“All of the above.”
“Really?”
“Sounds delicious,” he says.
“Okay, it’s your muffin”
I carry our plates to the small breakfast table overlooking the courtyard I share with the other three apartments in the fourplex. He follows behind me coffee, napkins and forks in tow.
“So, are you busy today?” he asks casually as he shoves an entire peanut butter, jelly and butter slathered English muffin half in his mouth.
“Nothing immediately pressing,” I answer.
“I might be persuaded,” I say cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”
Blogopera #4 - Pillowtalk
Thursday, June 5, 2008
#4 in a fiction series, to read in succession, begin with #1
............continued from last time
Blogopera #4/Pillowtalk
He rolled over and pulled me to him, my head resting against his chest, his arm around me, my leg slung over his.
“Bring that leg back here, I’m not finished with you,” he said as he pulled me to him, squeezed me and rubbed his scruff against my head.
“Back in college, I was in a convenience store when it was robbed, there were a bunch of people in the store and everyone was really scared. The guy didn’t see me because I had been behind a stack of stuff that hadn’t been put out yet so when I had my opportunity, I rushed the perp and tried to wrestle the knife from his hands. He stabbed me but I was able to detain him until the cops showed up.”
“No, but with words like perp, and took him down you might make a convincing extra on Law and Order. What really happened?” I implored.
“Steve Austin?” I asked.
“You know, the Six Million Dollar Man?” he said waiting for recognition. “He was an astronaut, had an accident, the government rebuilt him with bionic parts, any of this ringing a bell?”
“That’s him, he came with a removable bionic grip arm that could be switched with this laser arm that lit up. From what I’m told, Jack, my brother, wouldn’t let me play with it so I got a hold of it and made it permanently mine, at least until it got lodged and I had to have surgery.”
“It wasn’t a doll,” he stated emphatically,” it was an action figure and a pretty tough one at that, and I only swallowed part of it.”
“Ok, so what you’re saying is you‘ll swallow as long as it’s like, you know a gruff, masculine kind of guy.” Now I was teasing him.
I laughed and he pulled me tighter to him.
“Do you want to go?” I asked, hoping the answer was no.
“No.” he said.
“Then stay.”
He kissed me again and settled his head into the pillow, falling asleep and moments later I joined him.
_____________________________________________________________________________
A Note to My Readers
Just a quick note to my new friends who found me through the link on Dooce. I think today is my last day to be listed on Heather's site, so if you've enjoyed reading and would like to keep up with subsequent postings, please bookmark my site: http://formerlyfun.com/
*formerlyfunny(although some readers might think so)
I Ate Her Face With a Nice Chianti and Some Fava Beans
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
So I began today as a happy, little Guinea pig, ready to have my face lasered in the name of progress, science and rock-bottom priced vanity. This is the first 'procedure' I've had besides mole removal. I turn 35 this year and figure some small upkeep along the way can stave off or at least delay any big ticket face fixing(notice my plastic surgery fund donate button).
I was instructed to come in with a clean face, no makeup, no sunscreen, no moisturizer, nothing. Now I haven't left the house without undereye concealer since 1994, mascara's a must since my lashes are almost transparent and leave the house with no sunscreen, you know how I feel about that. So I brought cleanser to wash my face and did it in their bathroom before my visit. I just couldn't let all of the people I'd see upon entering the building get a load of me with my giant dark circles and nonexistent lashes.
As soon as I got there, they frosted my face like a cake with some numbing agent. It was only in those quiet moments sitting by myself in the examination room, my face slowly going numb, that a smidge of anxiety began to creep in. But me, never one to turn my nose up at low cost medical treatments, I trudged forward.
So, I had my two laser treatments and I can honestly tell you that they hardly hurt at all. I would rather do that than go to the dentist any day. I can also honestly tell you that I shouldn't have wasted time worrying about what people were going to think of me with no mascara or concealer because it was going to be way worse upon exiting the building.
Now I should state that I was the one who said be aggressive so I take full responsibility but wow, being a vegetarian the last thing I wanted my face to look like was a plate of ground beef. I look like that guard that got his face eaten off by Hannibal Lector. I would post a picture here if I wasn't afraid that it would be offensive to people(this coming from a girl who put a full-blown graphic sex scene in her blog).
My husband actually shuddered when I came home and he saw my face. My baby didn't notice, my four year old looked at me quizzically for about 2 seconds and went back to her playdogh and my seven year old told me it looked cool and asked me about the laser. Let me just say that the final result better be fanfuckingtastic because right now, I look tore up.
Blogopera #3 - Hunger
He pulled back.
“Good, now that that’s over, I don’t have to spend the rest of the night wondering when I get to kiss you.”
He sat back, his eyes moving over my body.
“You’re stunning,” he said as his hand tenderly traced the curves of my side.
“You’re like a violin’” he smiled, “except pliable.”
“Better than I imagined.” he added.
“You’ve imagined me like this?”
“Many times, many times.”
“You, are bossy,” he smiled and stood before me.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
The Most Fun I've Had Without a Penis
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Sadly, I have almost no girlfriends in the area, something my mother-in-law was nice enough to remind me when I was 8 months pregnant and she was trying to plan a babyshower. “You don't have any friends who can come?”
Ouch. It's always a good idea to make a fat, self-conscious, hormonal wreck carrying around her husband's ape-size progeny painfully aware that she's neglected her relationships with her single friends and failed to make new ones because she's been too busy basking in the warm light of love and then making babies and opening a small business. It doesn't help that I moved 2000 miles from home at the age of 24, leaving all of my childhood, highschool and college girlfriends behind.
So when one of my favorite clients(yes, I've seen her cha) invited me to join her and some friends on a girl's night out to have drinks and see Sex in the City, I was so excited I skipped my early afternoon nap. I immediately called my husband to see if I could go play, no he's not one of those husbands, I just like to sustain the illusion of choice. Of course he was just happy to get out of seeing it with me.
I met some really nice women for the first time. Three from the group are regular clients of mine and it wasn't even weird that I could have positively identified any of them in a 'muff shot'. I have to tell you, in spite of the fact that I spent an hour lost and aimlessly driving around a sketchy part of town trying to figure out if I could stop at the bodega to get fruitas frescas and directions, despite the fact that I had to refrain from partaking in a Cosmopolitan since between an antibiotic for the chest cold and the antidepressant for the ppd, alcohol would have, in the exact words of my doctor, 'lowered my seizure threshold,” I had the best evening that didn't involve someone with a penis(you know who you are) in a long time. Thanks ladies.
Blogopera #2 - Stranger Bearing Gifts
This is installment #2 in a fictional series, to read in succession, begin with #1
There he was, looking somewhat tired but unexpectedly nervous.
“Hi”, I said, surprised that he was actually here.
“Hi, we finally got that delivery service thing going,” he said holding up a bag in one hand and a cup in the other.
“What did you bring me?” I smiled.
“We have a lovely steamed milk with a shot of espresso, decaf, of course, in consideration of the late hour. And in here,” he said holding up the white, waxy bag, “we have an assortment of fine pastries, and not end of the day swag either, these were delivered just a few minutes ago.”
“Does the lady approve?” he asked.
“Come in.” I said.
“So you let any strange man in this late at night?”
“Only men who bring dessert.”
“You surprised me tonight,” he said.
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Well, I guess I was feeling bold.” I offered.
“Bold is good.”
“Can I get you something,” I said, standing there with the stuff in my hands unsure of what to do next.
He just looked at me, the silence between us bored into me. All his movements slow and deliberate, he moved closer and took the cup and bag from my hands, set them on the counter and rested his hands on my hips. I could hear us both breathing. He leaned his body against mine and pulled me into him filling up the space between us. His lips met my lips, it was perfect kiss, open, warm, moist, neither chaste nor obscene. It wasn’t a gum commercial with the kiss lasting as long as a divas final note but it was good and worked better than any drug, any mantra or massage to make all the tension fall from my body, not to mention caution and sound reason.
He pulled back.
“Good, now that that’s over, I don’t have to spend the rest of the night wondering when I get to kiss you.”
I'm So Hungry I Could Eat a Woolly Mammoth
Summer is here and once again, I'm on a diet. I was pregnant last summer so my big bootie was off the hook. It's been 7 months since my daughter's birth and high time I fit back into my normal clothes.
Everyone knows the formula for weight loss, consume fewer calories than you expend. Sounds simple enough but it's not. Most of us have a built-in biological addiction to food, it's called survival. Those of our ancestors that chowed down at the spit when the group caught the woolly mammoth fared much better than those that were like, oh, I'll just have a few bites now, I'll eat more next time. So, the ones that chowed down made more chow-downers and so on and so on. So it's no wonder most of us have a difficult time moderating our food intake. No one asks a heroin addict to do just a little heroin three times a day and not go overboard, but with food that's the deal.
Part of me(the demented, sick part, heavily influenced by the women I am surrounded by in Southern California) wishes I was anorexic so I could just skip eating all together. No, I am definitely not disciplined enough to be an anorexic. I tried it once for like an hour and a half and gave up when I smelled my neighbor's Thai carry out. I hate throwing up, so bulimia is out, anyhow, most of the bulimics I know aren't very thin so I'm thinking it's not very effective. I could go the one-part healthy, one part-OCD method and become a gymorexic. Sadly, I am way too lazy.
So that leaves me wondering what the plan should be. I can do any one of the bazillion low-carb options but we are vegetarian so that is really hard. If I eliminate carbs I don't think there's anything left I can eat besides cheese. I could join one of the programs that makes all your food for you, but I'm kind of a stickler when it comes to my food tasting good. I could also cut back on portions of the food we normally eat and get a bit more exercise, which is what I have been doing but it is soooooo slow. Or maybe I should just eat everything with chopsticks from now on. At least it would slow me down.
Blogopera #1 - Coffee Break
I love writing and I've written some fiction with mixed results. I seem to do better with a basis of truth that I can exaggerate from and build upon, take one story and retell it molding it until it's a little sexier, a little funnier. Before I met my husband, I dated. A lot. I started trying to write about my life at that time. As I reflected on the 'highlights' of that single life, a little story began to take shape. I have to say, I'm ambivalent about sharing it here. I'm not sure this is the forum but I thought it might be fun to have a story in excerpts,a little here a little there, kind of like reading on the can. So, from time to time, I will include 'the next installment'. And be warned, this is not literature(said in a British accent) this is basically a pulp-style romantic short story. It's a bit saucy(ie. there is some sexy time in it) so if that's not your bag, skip it and read the fun stuff. Let me know if it's a feature you enjoy reading or not. If you do, I will continue to post updates, if you don't, I'll stop posting it and go rock in the corner sucking my thumb with my therapist on speed dial.
Soap Blogopera #1/Coffee Break
Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me. I willed him to talk to me. I had recently read up on quantum theory, the part about what is possible if the mind believes it can be. Ok, so read up on is a bit of an exaggeration. I watched a movie that touched on it and subsequently bought a weighty theory book that has since sat unread with the receipt neatly tucked into it. Come over here and talk to me, I silently demanded. Maybe I just wasn’t concentrating enough.
“What’s so funny? he asked.
I read him the Jesus review, he laughed and said we should put that on a t-shirt, start our own business. Oh, I could think of better ways to spend time together. I laughed, went back to my paper, my eyes moving over lines, reading nothing. Volley that ambivalent interest right back at you buddy.
I was busy ignoring him when I heard the loud whir of machinery and I looked up to see he was vacuuming out the pastry cooler. He caught my eye and attached the hose of the shop vac to the crotch of his pants, all the while maintaining his staid expression. I laughed, he laughed. I finished the last sip of the nine pm coffee that would keep me up all night, folded my newspaper under my arm, slid off the stool and headed towards the door.
“Hey, you forgot something,” he yelled in my direction.
I turned around to look at him, my eyebrows raised.
“Goodnight,”, he said, his face breaking out in a giant grin.
I held the silence a moment, “Goodnight.” And I walked out the door.
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“Did you just call here Natalie?” he said sounding almost grave.
“No?” I said, confused.
“Yeah, it was you,” he responded, nodding his head as if to confirm it.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t make any phone calls to my local coffee shop today.”
“Yeah, it was definitely you.”
“Oh, right, I totally forgot, I did call, I wanted to know if you had any lemon bars left.” I said sarcastically.
“I knew it,” he sounded satisfied.
“I didn’t call,” I said getting irritated.
“Well, you should have.”
I ordered my drink, slightly aggravated.
“To go please, I’m going home.”
“Where’s that?” he asked.
“Why do you inquire?” I said almost offering it up as a challenge. We had gone on like this for weeks and he kept making subtle and not so subtle hints that he’d like to ask for my number.
“In case we start delivery service, just trying to be proactive,” he said seriously but that wide grin of his spread across his face.
“Really.” I said flatly.
“Yep, you never know when you might need a lemon bar and you’re in your jammies”, he said as he handed me my latte.
“Listen,” I said and in a moment of boldness took the napkin from around my drink and grabbed the pen from his hand, “I’m right around the corner, if you ever want to stop playing games and act on this, this,” I stumbled for the words, “this, whatever this is between us, here.” I thrust the slip of paper at him, turned around and walked out before I had a chance to feel the awkwardness and abject disgust at myself that would come later that night when I sat wondering which coffee shop I’d have to go to from now on, since clearly, I’d be too embarrassed to go back.
I walked the block from café to home past the flower shops, resale shops, and consignment furniture stores that peppered the historic district where I lived. I heaved up the steps of the porch, my legs tired from the run and opened the heavy wooden door to my apartment. I peeled off my clothes and got into the shower both to rinse off the sweat and grime and try to stop my mind from replaying my impulsive, presumptive rant. I picked up the house, opened the front door to let the cool ocean breeze wash through, fixed myself dinner and hunkered down to watch some television.
Montel Williams- Rest in Peace
Monday, June 2, 2008
On Friday I grabbed the June 9th People magazine from the spa for some weekend bathtub reading. I finally got to it Sunday night. Of course, good blogger that I am, I always read the Reader's Comments section. I came across this following letter from a reader:
MONTEL WILLIAMS
“Montel Williams wasn't afraid to handle controversial subjects like war, rascism, AIDS and child abuse. And he didn't just talk about problems;he jumped in feet first to help solve them. He was a talk show host with a keen mind as well as a heart and conscience. He definitely will be missed.”
After my bath, I checked online, because I didn't know if he actually died of MS or not. Ok, if you haven't figured it out already, I'll clue you in. Montel Williams did not die, put the tissues away, he is perfectly fine, well, except for the MS. When I couldn't find any reference to his death, I checked People online and gleened that what they were talking about in the past tense, was his career as a talk show host. I guess the letter used so much past tense that I just assumed he died. Just more proof that I am in fact a natural blonde.
When Mama's Happy Everyone's Happy
Saturday, May 31, 2008
I feel bad for admitting this, but before I had kids, I thought that women with children consciously gave up when it came to their looks. I would look at the greasy hair that was long overdue for a color touch up, the ragged nails, the cracked heels, the stained clothes, the stretchy pants, ugly bras and granny panties and think I'd never become that complacent. Then of course one day, a few months after giving birth I looked down at my feet, usually soft and neatly polished, now rough and dry, my pedicure so old the polish had grown almost all the way out. I had at least clipped them from time to time only for the sake of comfort. I was in sore need of a haircut and color and my brows had resorted back to the shape I had in 7th grade before my mom relented and let me tweeze them. I wore what really amounted to pajamas now considered clothes. No wonder I felt like a mental patient, I certainly looked like one. Of course I had figured out that no one consciously gives up, you just get tired and busy doing other things, more important things(because our things don't seem important) until little by little we turn into that woman we promised ourselves would never be us. I looked in the mirror for the 1st time in a long time, I mean really looked and I hardly recognized myself. I marched out to the garage where my husband was tidying up. “ You need to leave, and you need to take the kids with you,” I demanded. “Ok,” he said cautiously, “where do we need to go?” “Anywhere, I don't care but if you ever want to have sex again you need to go somewhere for at least four hours and let me salvage this,” I said, now almost in tears,” this,” I choked out, motioning contemptuously from my head to my feet. “I need to feel like a girl again.” “Ok,” he said stepping back. As soon as the last of them had their shoes on and the door closed behind them I went about it. I'm a beauty professional(la di da) so I can do most of the work myself, I usually entrust my own stylist but today I didn't have time for appointments, I just needed to make this better. I touched up my roots, I soaked, scrapped, sawed, buffed, and polished my feet until they looked like mine instead of extras from the Lord of the Rings. I hopped in the shower, I shaved my legs, deep-conditioned my hair and exfoliated. I got out and got my eyebrows back in order, put on a little makeup and put on the nicest thing I had that actually fit. This whole process took almost the entire four hours. I still didn't feel completely like myself, but I was a lot closer. These days, with three kids, it's still a struggle to carve out time to take care of myself, be it hair appointments or doctor's appointments, and yes, I still feel selfish sometimes. Thankfully, my husband reminds me to see the doc and encourages me to make time for the things that make me feel good about myself, always saying the same thing, when mama's happy, everyone's happy.
Spa Tips From Spa Chic #2 You'll Be Sorry
Friday, May 30, 2008
With a sunny weekend in the cards for many of us, I thought it was time for Spa Tip #2.
I know it's naggy and anyone who has access to the computer is already aware that you should wear sunscreen but I am confronted with a steady stream of clients who STILL aren't doing it, so I know some of you aren't either.
Let me say this, one time, very clearly: If you don't wear sunscreen consistently(that means every day), YOU'LL BE SORRY.
Now you can call me a sunscreen nazi, pout and say wearing sunscreen in the sun is no fun which is akin to men saying they can't feel anything with a condom or motorcyclists refusing to wear helmets. Nevermind the worst case scenario, skin cancer, unprotected sun exposure is the #1 factor in premature skin aging. The sun adversely affects collagen production in the skin, and without collagen, your skin gets all loosy and saggy. It also causes uneven pigment, liver spots, wrinkles, and rebound acne(this is basically when dead, dry skin from sun exposure clogs your pores causing a breakout). There is also the risk of melasma(uneven pigment caused by hormonal changes due to pregnancy, the Pill and things like that), not to mention permanent stretching of small blood vessels, giving your skin a mottled, reddish appearance.
And for those of you wondering about tanning beds? Ick, so 1993. Tanning beds are great if you want to look like an old-timey leather suitcase from the movie Out of Africa and I can't wait to sit next to YOU at the 30 year class reunion.
Performance Review For My Wife
Performance Review for My Wife
1.You had the baby seven months ago, no more risk of Toxoplasmosis. I think it's time you start changing OUR cat's litter box or is this duty permanently mine now?
1.Do you remember the 36+ hours you labored with our last child(I'm sorry stupid question), yeah well, I could never have done that.
Performance Review for My Husband
Thursday, May 29, 2008
1.Don't ask, "What's that smell?" when you smell anything that you believe I had anything to do with, be it candles, perfume, dinner or something coming from the bathroom.
1.You are a hero for traversing my moods and whims with nothing more hostile or sarcastic than the occasional confused look.
Harvey Korman 1927-2008
Legendary comedian Harvey Korman died today. I had the opportunity to meet and talk to him a few years ago. My cousin and Harvey's daughter were friends who attended the same university and at their commencement, we sat with the Kormans. I tried to make witty banter completely overwhelmed by and eager to impress someone I regarded as brilliant. I remember saying something along the lines of, "seeing a girl with a boyfriend is like seeing someone with a perm, it looks good on someone else and then when you get one yourself, you're dissappointed." I said something else but I've blocked it out so it must have been embarrassing. He laughed genuinely and told me I was funny and that I should do stand up. As I've already freely admitted, I'm neurotic and suffer from crippling self-doubt so Harvey's endorsement is something I will never forget. I was so excited, I called my mom that night and told her I had gotten a laugh out of Harvey Korman. I guess I am funny, I told her. Of course she got irritated and said,"sure I've been telling you that you are hilarious since you were six and you've never believed me, but Harvey Korman tells you..." Harvey was 81 so it would be a stretch to call his passing a tragedy but comedy has lost a real heavyweight and a very good man.
Is That Pepper Spray in Your Pocket or Are You Just Glad To See Me
Okay so the baby finally went down for her afternoon nap and I was hoping to get a shower in because it's 3pm and I'm still in my pajamas all spit-up and stink. So I started the shower and got undressed when I realized that our front door was open and I didn't want to leave the door open while I showered. I went to go close it and just as I get up there, I see the mailman. OMG, I think my mailman saw me naked. I can't be sure because I dropped to the floor faster than you can say sniper fire. Kind of wishing my bikini wax wasn't so recent, that tile floor was cold. Now I know, you're thinking, why would I go to the front door nekid? I was lulled into a false sense of safety because our mailman always carries a little radio with him and I can hear the jammin reggae well before he reaches our door. No radio today, no sir. This is what I get for trying to fit a shower in and have a few minutes alone.
The Upside of Depression
1. When you call to see a doctor and they ask why, when you tell them you've been feeling sad, they will get you in RIGHT away.3. Skimping on outfit changes and showers means less laundry, lower water bills.
4. Crying burns calories.
5. Suddenly, you're getting high fives for getting up in the morning.
6. Apathy and mood swings makes you feel like a teenager again.
7. Doing Nothing is a cheap hobby.
8. Your new expressionless face is eradicating your forehead wrinkles.
9. No one asks you why you are adding chocolate chips to your cheese omelet.
10. Once you are really feeling good, you can plan a 'bad day' every now and then just to keep everyone on their toes.
The Fur Trade
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
I spend a lot of time around vaginas. By trade I am an esthetician(basically a professional face washer, pimple popper, brow shaper, hair remover) and my specialty, the thing I do better than almost anyone else, is the Brazilian bikini wax. I am university educated but chose to spend my workdays chatting with woman while I rip out various areas of body hair. I make a better hourly gross than I would have if I had gone to law school as originally planned and being around women of varied ages, ethnicities, economic and social backgrounds is good for my soul. It’s kind of like being paid to be a girlfriend, well, if your girlfriend was a dominatrix. I love what I do, it's like getting paid to have a girl's night out but my real love is writing. The spa gives me time with neat women, great material, a chance to escape my kids and a write-off for all of my beauty addictions. I talk to women all day and my clients tell me things they won't tell anyone else so I have some good stories to tell. They cover the spectrum: juicy, poignant, sad, hysterical and more and yes, stuff about me too-- I can't wait to share them with you.
Crazy Bandaid Lady
Putting the Bleep in Blog
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Today I stumbled upon a blog referencing a made up 'article', urging fellow bloggers to refrain from using profanity because,“we have to remember that our blogs are published in cyberspace, and anyone, of any age, can (and may) read them. That means, a seven year old could be reading your blog…. it could be your own child, or grandchild. Have you ever thought that a seven year old may be reading your blog? “
Wow, I certainly hope we don’t all start writing our blogs with seven year olds in mind. There’s millions if not bazillions of patently offensive, grossly inappropriate content out there. In a sea of all the bizarre fetishist pornography, my seven year old running across the f-word is the least of my worries. He has already heard ‘the big seven’ at school and expressed some curiosity about ways in which he might use them. My husband and I have made sure he knows that these words are inappropriate, offensive to others and therefore should only be used in your treehouse with your boy buddies or around great grandma who can’t hear anything that isn’t Italian anyway. Of course, if he learns Italian profanity we might have to amend that last one.
So I say, by all means, block my website from your kids–please. I don’t want to limit what I write because someone else is too complacent or ill-informed to help their child navigate the dangers inherent in such an open forum. As a parent, do you really want a bunch of wierd bloggers essentially babysitting your kids? The internet is no different from any other medium. We don’t produce movies, television, music, art, books, or newspapers exclusively for a general audience. Expecting authors, comedians, commentators, and the like to do it is irresponsible as far as free speech goes and just plain lazy parenting.
Tina Fey Is a Fucking Rockstar
I think I might have a girl crush on Tina Fey. With a middle name like Stamatina, it’s no surprise she gravitated toward comedy. She has written and acted in some of the funniest sketch comedy that SNL has produced. Remember Mom Jeans(below) or how about the Seasonale parody(above). She also writes, executive-produces and stars as Liz Lemon in NBC’s "30 Rock," While “30 Rock” is not a ratings whore like “Deal or No Deal”, it’s arguably the smartest show on network tv. Its greatest ratings liability is that it may be ‘too smart’ for the average television viewer and we all know that above-average smart people don’t watch nearly enough tv. Beyond these accomplishments, achieved in a field largely dominated by men, Tina Fey is a dish.
She is beautiful, smart, funny and the perfect balance of insecurity and feminist bravado. If she’s right and bitch is indeed the new black, then she will continue to pave the way for those of us who’d be happy to write her Christmas cards if it meant we could collaborate with her.
We Would Be So Much Cooler If We Didn't Have Kids
Monday, May 26, 2008
We envision last-minute jaunts to New York, two weeks in Italy(no one, not even your own parents will babysit that long), weekends spent doing nothing, sex anytime of the day, anywhere in the house, as noisy as we like and more disposable income than we could ever imagine. We wonder what it must be like to make risky career moves without the weight of the responsibility for those little mouths that need feeding. We consider the significantly lower cost of a mortgage in the less kid-friendly, award-winning school neighborhoods we'd be happy to live in were we childless.
The truth is we probably wouldn’t do most of the things we imagine. My husband and I both love to travel but are essentially homebodies. In reality we would probably sleep in more, play video games(him) or download pirated music and write for more than 15 minute blocks without getting someone juice or settling some sibling dispute(me). We'd see more movies in the theater, I’m certain I would read more, as I did before the kids and our vacations would be more spontaneous as would our sex life.
But then my four year old tells me I'm beautiful and says, “Happy birthday mom, I love you” even though it’s not anywhere near my birthday, just something she’s been saying for months. And my son, very unbigboylike plants his 7 year old hieny on my lap, his eyes pleading to be held for a few minutes, and my baby shrieks with delight to see me after only an hour apart. And the moments when all of us are together whether it’s laughing at the dinner table or huddled together watching a movie and I look at my husband and he looks at me and we know, this is how it is supposed to be for us. Not for everyone but for us.
Spa Tips From Spa Chic #1
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Brow powder or eyeshadow in a color that blends well with your brow. Using shadow in the right shade is fine just make sure it’s shimmer free. Steer clear of pencil liners, they typically look less natural and are greasy therefore smudge easier and spread on naturally oily complexions. 
Clear mascara to brush brows into place and set.
Labels: beauty, brows, estheticians, tweezerman
I Hate This Part
Saturday, May 24, 2008
It’s 1am and I am a wreck. My husband and I have been up and down with our 7 month old baby who, it would seem, has an ear infection. We have tried Motrin, rocking, walking, a warm shower, which worked for awhile, probably more a distraction from the discomfort than relief. She finally fell asleep in my arms, still taking the gaspy breaths we all do after a hard cry, only to wake up just as miserable when I tried to lay her down in our bed. There is nothing like hearing your child keen and wail in pain. I felt like someone wrenched my heart from my chest, threw it to the ground and did a flamenco dance on it until it was a bloody mess. I am spent, my chest is aching from anxiety. I am scheduled to work tomorrow so my husband has taken her and camped upright on the couch, trooper that he is, because she seems to feel better this way. So I am fairly certain tomorrow morning we’ll be taking child #3 on her inaugural trip to urgent care. Ugh, this part never gets any easier.
Labels: ear infections, family, kids, sick kids
Dirty Jobs
Friday, May 23, 2008
My husband and I were watching television recently when a commercial for the Swiffer Wet Jet floor cleaner came on. I watched nonplussed as the gleeful woman traded in her dirty, ineffective mop for a super clean, Swiffer with pre-moistened floor cleaning pads.
“Doesn’t that make you angry?” my husband asked. “What?” I asked, intently watching to see how the floor looked before and after. “That,” he said pointing to the tv contemptuously. “You mean all the disposable, wasteful stuff they try to sell us?” I asked “No,” he said,” the fact that it’s always a woman doing the work in cleaning commercials.”
It had never occurred to me but my radar primed, I started noticing all the commercials for cleaning stuff. Sure enough, one after another were filled with impeccably dressed, serene and satisfied looking women happily scrubbing toilets and mopping floors.
There were no men in site. Were the men conspicuously missing in these commercials to trick us into thinking that if we clean really good with their product, absent the men, our houses will stay clean. Oh wait, let me not forget the one man, the only man who does make an appearance in the world of cleaning product commercials, Mr.Clean. Mr. Clean, standing there with his arms crossed like some maniacal taskmaster or hypercritical foreman, watching you clean.
Maybe I’m so conditioned to accept that ensuring the house is clean is my sphere, that I don’t balk that every product is directed at me. I brought this up at lunch with a few other women. “Why do you think they don’t show men cleaning in these commercials?” I asked them. “Because men don’t clean and if a woman saw a man cleaning in the commercial, she would immediately see the hypocrisy and be even more pissed that they were getting credit for doing something they don’t do.”
But my husband does the floors a lot I thought. “Because women buy these products,” another friend offered. It’s true, women account for the majority of cleaning product purchases, but why do I want to see a well dressed, serene woman Swiffering her floors? Even on the Swiffer website, they show a picture of a women cleaning in white pants. White pants? Really? I can tell you, I have never cleaned in white pants, maybe white underpants because it’s a warm day or I’m waiting on the laundry. That is just not what happens in my house on cleaning days. Contrary to the halcyon depiction in tvland, on my commercial, you’d see a harried, unshowered woman in her nightgown getting poopy cat prints and 3 days worth of the children’s breakfast spillage off the floors before her mother-in-law comes over and reports her to child services. And if women are indeed the marketing target, why don’t they appeal to women’s desires? How about a little wish fulfillment here.
I can see it now, the commercial starts and on the screen we see the husband, furiously cleaning the floor, mopping the sweat off his brow as he wipes the prints from the refrigerator. He scuttles about putting toys away and hanging up his wife’s coat and dispensing with a weeks worth of mail. He white gloves the mantel making sure everything is just so. This tv husband knows what you go through and unlike your real husband, he feels the work is anybody’s to do. Why shouldn’t he do it, it needs to get done. Or find some hunky man’s man that appeals to both men and women to endorse a few cleaning products. Get Mike Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs to brandish a Swifter and I’d bet men and women alike would be filling their carts up with Swifters galore.
Labels: cleaning, commercials, Dirty Jobs, feminism, housekeeping, Mike Rowe, Mr. Clean, Swiffer
The Girl Gestapo
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I was reading “O”prah magazine this morning while the baby slept and I came across something that irritated me. I wanted to blog about it, it wasn’t something egregious, just something that bothered me. I started this little diatribe in my head while I finished cleaning the kitchen pondering how I was going to write about it when I realized something very important. I am 
terrified to blog about Oprah. Now the overly optimistic part of me(the one that also believes I still have a shot at becoming a professional trapeze artist or play cello for the symphony though I have never touched a cello in my life)thinks someday I am going to do something worthy of being on Oprah’s show, like the lady who invented Spanx or Betty Broderick who killed her husband. Saying something bad about her would ruin that aspiration. I imagine her inviting me on pretending she’d never read the snarky thing I’d written and then she’d confront me in front of her studio audience who would gasp in horror and then throw their favorite things at me. Plus, I wouldn’t be able to meet Gayle or Dr. Oz. The other part of me is consumed with a genuine, deep-seated fear. I’m afraid of Oprah. I think Oprah Winfrey could make someone disappear. Look at James Frey, he made her angry and have we heard from him since? Note: I am in no way suggesting that Oprah would actually murder anyone, Oprah did you hear that, seriously don’t pick up the phone to call your ‘people’, I have three children who need a mother. So for the time being, the only thing I’ll be blogging about Oprah, is not blogging about Oprah.
Labels: Blogging, Dr. Oz, Gayle, James Frey, O Magazine, Oprah
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