Get a Handle on It . . . Literally

My contribution to a fashion site.  Read my piece and follow my friend pursebop.com for the stories and photos.

http://www.pursebop.com/ode-gst/

Beauty From the Outside

I do not like being photographed.  I hide my body behind my children and find a way to camouflage my neck.  My glasses stay on my nose to cover my wrinkles.  That's my grand plan.  Rather ironic, don't you think, for someone who does a weekly live interview on public access television.

My digital appearance is rather weak.  Blog and Facebook photos are cartooned. Twitter still has the egg and Linked In is blank.

This weekend, I bit the bullet and had head shots taken. I can't believe the results.  Amazing.  With a hair stylist, makeup artist, good lighting, professional photographer and photoshop, even I look good.

Take the Good, Take the Bad, The Facts of Death

As my teenager prepares to attend a service for yet another friend’s deceased parent, it hits me that my children have dealt with a lot of death in their short lives.  Much more than I did in my youth.  And it makes me wonder whether I was just protected (I was) or have there been more untimely demises.  I think the latter.

It is true that my parents prevented me from attending funerals as a child and I had to argue to go to those I did.  But I believe there were fewer.  I just counted . . . I recall the neighborhood girl who lost her mother to breast cancer, a playmate whose somewhat older father passed away, a popular student/brother hit by a car and a teammate’s father who died of a sudden heart attack.  Perhaps there were others and again I was shielded.  But in those years, divorce seemed much more prevalent . . . death of a different kind. 

My children, on the other hand, are quite aware that children lose parents.  By age six, my eldest knew a boy whose father (my dear friend) died suddenly.  In elementary school, my elder two had classmates whose father perished in 9/11.   A horrific accident on vacation claimed the mother of one large family, among others.   Another father drowned on vacation.  Four years ago, four more parents died.  Even my 11 year old knows two families who lost moms to cancer.   

This post—9/11 era, as I call it, is filled with angst, international turmoil and multiple mass domestic shootings.   I suspect that my boys still believe in the natural order of life and death and, if asked, would expect my parents to predecease me.   But I also guess that they would not be as shocked as I, if it did not happen that way.

And so, matter-of-factly, my son readies for another memorial. He needs to support a friend.  I, however, grieve for this boy whose mother I never met and for my son’s loss of innocence.  I also wonder if and how I could have protected him.

Gotta Get it Off My Chest

Literally . . . I walked in to a Victoria's Secret yesterday, for the first time in years.  No salesperson came near me.  Maybe I'm too old . . . and I'm supposed to know the secret by now.

Also, I've hit a new low:  my sports bras (aka tanks) now have four hooks!!!!

And, lastly, men . . . no matter how hot you think you are, please wear a shirt while exercising . . . sweat dripping off wet chest hair while running or biking is gross.

Thanks for "listening."

Saved By the Kid

Little guy just saved me a whole bunch of money . . . or at least temptation.  This is one of the hottest bags of the year . . . the Celine luggage tote costing four figures.  http://www.bagsnob.com/2012/05/dakota-fanning-totes-celine-for-off-day-chic.html

But when I look at the bag, I only see this:

For those of you unfamiliar, it's the Annoying Orange, star of an annoying iPad/iPhone game and videos that my youngest favors imitating.

Do you see it on the bag? . . . the handle attachments are eyes, the zipper is the mouth and the zipper pull is the tongue.

I showed it to two high-end sales associates who lust after the bag.  I ruined it for them; they'll never look at the bag the same way.  If sales plummet, I guess we know who's to blame.

A Model of Middle Age

Like most girls growing up, I briefly entertained dreams of being a model.  No matter that I was neither a beauty queen nor photogenic, I wanted to be pretty and thin enough to grace the cover of teen magazines.

That long-forgotten fantasy came to mind recently when I was (sort-of) asked to be a model.  A hair model.  Apparently, if my hair is properly colored, highlighted, cut, blown, curled  and extended, then it's perfect. What seemed like an extraordinary effort to me, was utterly normal to  the bi-coastal hair stylist.   My hair is the perfect candidate for perfection.

Unlike my legs.  My gams once were recommended for modeling.   They are the one body part I was raised to believe was ideal, albeit by my mother, from whom they are inherited.  However, others have agreed.  I proudly recall  that in my younger years, these limbs occasionally stopped traffic. Unfortunately, my legs, like me, are a bit too short for modeling.  

Fortunately, though, the legs are the last thing to go in middle age.  And I love wearing shorts, despite the burden of hair removal . . . which ironically brings me back to my locks . . . 

It would be cool to one day tell my grandchildren about my "modeling career" launched in middle age.   I suspect I would enjoy being styled on a regular basis. Extra money (or reduced hair bills) wouldn't hurt.   I just don't know whether those perfect legs could or should spend so much time in a chair. 

UnDrugged

I went for my antibiotic and left wanting an anti-depressant.  Mom & Pop are deserting me again.  As the pharmacy manager handed me my prescription, he told me the store was closing in a couple of days, as part of a multiple store sale to . . . you guessed it, CVS.   Prescriptions were being transferred to the big chain's local branch furthest from my home.

My heart sank.  I didn't know what to say except that I am sorry.  I will miss you.  I valued going to a small local pharmacy, even though the behemoth has two more-convenient locations.  I chose a store, even though it closed in the evenings and on Sundays, because the staff cared, knew my face if not my name and delivered.

Now, I have no choice.  This is the second Mom&Pop to leave.  None are left around here.  I feel like an orphan.