Oh, the 50's!

As I peered in the grimy mirror this morning, plucking my aging eyebrows and attempting to look 30 again, or perhaps 40, I thought about how long I have been trying to look "good." Do others out there have this painful realization?

It started in my early teens, as the vision of beautiful movie stars flitted across my vision: Rita Hayworth (ok, she was a LOT older than I am), Jayne Mansfield, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. How did they get their faces--not to mention their gorgeous bodies--to look so luciously perfect? I started with a small Maybelline mascara box--red. It opened to a narrow mirror on the top lid and a small cake of solid black mascara below, with a little groove for a brush. Oh, heaven! I remember spitting on the brush (who knew about hygiene then?), rubbing it on the mascara, and spreading it on my lashes. How killingly dashing. I was clearly well on my way to Marilyn Monroe-hood.

Then there was the bra. Is the bra. A torture device invented by some deranged person long ago. Never possible to actually drop one's breasts into it and fasten the closures behind. It had to be dragged around one's waist, fastened, and then sweatily shrugged up to enclose said breasts. Thank God there was no flesh sneaking past those rigid panels!

Then came the girdle. Did I need one at the slim age of 14? Clearly not. But I thought I did, and it meant I could wear stockings and fasten them at the top with those little nubby things that are only enchanting when someone is undressing you, preferably slowly.

Have we progressed since then? Have I progressed? Nope. Here's the drill. Wash face with expensive Patricia Wexler facial wash. Pat dry. (Rubbing might encourage wrinkles!) Spread on hideously expensive thick pink cream--also from Patricia Wexler--and wait for it to sink in. While it is sinking in (at least a ten minute proposition), spray water and conditioner on recalcitrant, short, curly hair, plus something expensive and stinky from Marshall's cosmetics section. Unwind hair dryer, which has almost plunged into toilet, and start to blow dry, using an enormous brush to straighten said too-curly hair. After 10 sweaty minutes of this, push into an assemblage of style and spray on some carcinogenic spray to keep it in place.

Pluck eyebrows, squinting busily into the grimy mirror, wondering if I should order one of those magnifying mirrors from catalogues for old people which contain products for hammer toes, urinary incontinence, and bathtubs which swing out vertically for the mobility-impaired. Sigh. Stroke black onto eyebrows to thicken them; afix glaze (my daughter uses vaseline) to keep thinning eyebrows in place. Dip eyeliner brush into green eye color and paint it at base of upper lashes as well as delicately below eyes. Try not to notice how much hand trembles. (Did I drink too much wine last night? Or is it just general debility...) Put a dash of glowing cream eye color above the green. Spread mascara carefully.

Now expensive Patricia Wexler pink cream is dry. Then spread P.W.'s day cream with factor 30 in it over face. Hmmm--is that a new splotch on my left cheek? Remnant of sunbathing in the Caribbean at noon wearing factor 2 suncream decades ago? Dot pale concealer under eyes and spread gently. Then take expensive Aveda toning cream and spread over face. Almost done. Line lips carefully and put on expensive Aveda rose lipstick, wondering if I should invest in one of those creams meant to plump out aging lips.

Are we done? Oh, say it ain't so! Not yet. There's the underwear, the bra (same problem still encountered), pants, and shirt. Then tape the vulcan-salute separating left toes, snuggle into sandals, and--what did I forget? Oh, right. The perfume. I know. Fragrance-free meetings defeat me. I know others suffer from my scent, and I feel for them, I do, and try to be sensitive to this. But for someone who all her life has felt she is unacceptable--that major construction work is needed to look even modestly acceptable--dabbing scent on wrists and neck is part of the essential reconstruction job. It makes me feel loveable. Just a tiny bit.

And the soul? Well, that's for my other blog: www.itsthegodthing.blogspot.com

Bite Me, Holiday Expectations!

Hello after a long absence, mostly due to a crushing deadline with my novel about a bipolar girl alive during the Salem Witch trials, The Father of Lies, but I'm back--brain a bit reamed out, and body fluffier from sitting too long in a chair.
I tried something different this year in our annual Christmas gathering with pots of food and goodies. We agreed first of all not to exchange any presents ("No, Presents?" my 19 year-old daughter exclaimed mournfully) which took away a lot of the pressure. (Will they like this? Will they think I'm OK to give this? Would they really rather heave this over the bridge into the rushing river because it is such a depleted and sad gift....)
I also did not send out Christmas cards, much as I love them, because they are such a time-suck. I recommend signing up for www.jacquielawson.com for her terrific animated cards, which can be sent for any occasion during the year. They are imaginative, cool, and original, come with music, and are full of motion--rather like the wizard photos in the Harry Potter books.
The third thing I did was open my hands and let go of my expectations of our family gathering: that we might put to rest uncertainties and tension; that everyone will be pleased with me; and that we will sally forth full of good cheer and bonhomie. Alors! We picked up my frail, aged stepmother (who still manages to be astounding and cranky with a certain Sicilian sharpness) and ferried her down for the gathering. Just helping her up the stairs made me realize how blessed I am to be steady on my own two feet; how easy it is for me to navigate stairs, changes in levels, and more.
When we sat down to supper, I just tried to listen for a change, instead of insisting that I have the last word or be right about everything (a theme in my natal family). Interestingly enough, by doing that the "I" that is "me" simply receded into the background. Somebody else was present, named Ann or Annie, but that person just occupied a chair and looked at the marvelous people assembled around our table: my two brothers (we're all in our 60's now!); my nephew and his lady from California; my younger brother's brilliant wife; my older brother's long-term girlfriend, musician, and speaker of French with her two girls; my husband (known for being witty); and my niece who, with great practicality and vision, manages a large apartment complex, as well as being an avant-garde musician.
So much talent at one table! And by the simple act of letting go and falling backwards, just a little, I was able to truly see people and appreciate how hard they work, the deep goodness within, and the wild humor which binds us together.
It was a good Christmas. Jesus was born in the stable, the Magi have come and gone, and the star I follow now has more to do with the brilliance of others than my own flickering brilliance.

Bite Me, Gay-Haters!

Ok, I tried to keep this sort of light and funny, but in the light of a recent hateful ruling passed by the state of Connecticut (the jowly Governor seemed to be right on-board with this one), I have to rant. Really. And bless Steve Colbert who brought this to my attention with a hard-hitting and hilarious show about this. According to Steve, this ruling prevented a man in Connecticut from retrieving the dead body of his LOVER. Somehow, loving someone of the same sex when they are dead seemed to be part of the whole gay-marriage imbroglio, where people trumpet the "one man-one woman" rule, as if hoardes of animals (somewhere over 300 I read) never get it on with species of the same sex. As Steve pointed out, we musn't even have cemetaries where gay couples can be buried side by side. Only one man and one dead woman are to be allowed. He also had a riff about "gay zombies" which was wonderful, but which my feeble and shattered brain has lost.
Why so afraid, oh, jowly-chinned governor with the little mean eyes? How can it possibly effect you to have either same-sex marriage or same-sex deaths and cemetaries? Somehow, in our need to pander to the fearful Christian right and folks who support DOMA, we have let cruelty seep into our veins, our mouths, our eyes. As a wildly liberal Christian, I always find it sustaining that Jesus not once--not ever--said anything against homosexuality. Lots about the evils of money. Lots about the evils of rigidly adhering to rules which are impossible to follow. A great deal about letting go of fear and anxiety. So I'm about ready for some light-imbued mystic from another dimension to crash through the doors of this culture and say, gently but firmly, "Fear not." And, "Peace be with you."

Bite Me, Dating Scene!

I must confess that I am not in the current dating scene nor have I been in it since I was twenty years old, which was a gazillion years ago. I've had friends who divorced and then tried getting back into the dating scene, including one thing which amazed me--High Speed Dating. It's sort of like musical chairs with potential dates; you sit at a table with one guy (assuming you're into guys, that is), talk rapidly about anything you can think of (I would probably blather about my dog) , and when the buzzer sounds, you leap to the next table for another intimate encounter. Wow. Talk about spending time trying to get to know someone! Whatever happened to that?
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!

In Praise of Small Dogs

Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.

Bite Me, Pseudo-Girdles!

All right, I've reached that age. It used to be that my mother-in-law would assess my hip width with a strict gaze, making little motions with one hand, pursing her lips, and then saying--"You know, Ann, you've got good hips for child-bearing!" Happy to know that, mom-in-law! And these hips did happily accomodate two babies. But somehow, we have gone from the fruitful-of-loins category to the needing-to-be-reined-in category. I rammed up against this a few weeks back when I was shopping at my favorite high-end store which I can no longer afford to shop in. I think I had managed to find some garment under $100 (perhaps it was one sock, not even a pair), when the saleslady gave me an assessing look, and with a little purse of her lips mentioned that, "I wear this tightening pair right under my dressy pants, say, if I'm going to a wedding or something." What in hell was she talking about? "Tightening pair?" "You mean GIRDLE?" I replied in a bitter voice. She shook her head. " Not really that, just--tightening," she made the same motion with her hand as my mother-in-law had done years ago. But this time it was clear: the width of my body was no longer to be celebrated and acclaimed--it was to be reined in and reduced.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.

Sexy Older Men, Unite!

I am getting tired of smooth-faced men in movies and on the television, as if all of us women out here were in our twenties and looking for amorous partners of the young persuasion. I'm not sure when this happened--when I stopped looking at gorgeous young men and turned my gaze, instead, to older men, preferably with a lot of gray on their heads, and with faces seamed with laughter and years of personal history. It is unutterably entrancing to see a man with a lived-in face: I can almost trace the lines with one finger: there, those are from your first divorce; there, those around your mouth are from laughing at your toddler going fishing in the toilet bowl one day; there, that dent in your chin is from clenching your teeth when you had a teenager driving on the freeway; and there, on your forehead, lines of concentration, from working long hours, studying, and just--showing up, day after day after day.
That's what I find sexy. A lived-in face and a lived-in body. And someone who remembers the same generation of music that I do, similar jokes, and foods that no longer grace the supermarket shelves, like cereals with Sergeant Preston decoder rings. It makes me feel at home.