You Could Just Leave That One Short

Somehow, I broke three nails last night at the Berkley Front. This means I can't go get a manicure for at least another two weeks because she will cut them all to match . . . and I don't want them that short. (ah, more evidence that I have been reading way too many fashion magazines and they're rotting my brain) It's like they have OCD, with the evenness.

I also think I might be coming down with a cold. Yesterday at the allergist, while getting my shots, I had to say something to the nurse, the usual pleasantries we exchange as she is poking me in the arms and shoving burning liquid into my flesh. But I opened my mouth and nothing came out . . . eventually my voice worked, but it sounded like Phoebe in the episode when she does sexy "Smell Cat". And I couldn't figure out why I didn't know that my voice didn't work . . . I had a conversation with my brother earlier -- why I was busting my ass to get to the allergist, because I had to do something with his family. Until it dawned on me . . . the conversation had been on IM. I haven't tried to talk today. Okay, just did and have a voice.

Maybe it's just that my house is too dry. And too messy . . . have to get on the messy today. Cleaned part of my kitchen yesterday and all of my "delicates". But still have two weeks worth of mail to sort through on the coffee table. There are parts of me that love never being home, but the pile on the coffee table is irritating me. So must be dealt with. And I tore apart a bunch of stuff, looking for my jeweler's saw frame and can't find it. So if you know where it is . . . please let me know because I don't have time to buy another one.

And yes, for those of you who are concerned . . . I had fun. Likes to argue, interesting job, nice truck (as if I care what someone drives) and made me laugh. And I gave him this address. So enough. It will not be spoken of again.

"Sweetie, Let Mommy Finish Her Martini"

I've been reading too many magazines while working out at the Y . . . and I'm turning into one of those Salinger female archetypes, the ones who actually care about things in magazines. As proof of this, I have started writing down everything I eat . . . because Instyle or Cosmo or whatever other drivel was in the rack told me to. Told me it was a great idea because, then, you will think about what you eat. And we all need to think very hard about what we eat.

I don't want to think about what I eat. At least not in any detail, unless the details include "and it was incredibly yummy." But here I am, writing down my food. Because I read about it in a magazine. Shit, it's such a girl thing. I think the idea behind the whole thing is that you will think twice about eating that cheese danish . . . that yummy calorie filled cheese danish . . . if you have to write down that you ate a cheese danish. And you know what? I did think twice.

If I start talking about my pores or start complaining that I don't have a date on a Friday night, please come and bring the deprogrammers.

Flora and the "est"s

The spirit of my Grandmother, Flora, escaped from whereever it was . . . and ended up in my body today. Again.

I was supposed to be xmas shopping. This means no shopping for one's self. Only petting the cashmere sweaters at Banana Republic and wondering if you should spend that much for a sweater for a brother that lives on the surface of the sun. But it is the perfect color. Would bring out the color of his eyes perfectly. And for $200 it should. But it was beautiful, and wonderful, and would probably go get a soda for you if you wanted it to (because it should for that much money) . . . or at least pick up a girl that could go get the soda. And yet, it has sooo many things stacked against me buying it. And then grandmother took over.

I had the strongest urge to buy lipstick. There are many, many shiny reflective things at the wonder mall and every time I saw myself, I thought "lipstick . . . need lipstick . . . must buy lipstick . . ."

Now my grandmother, she was all about the "est". As in coralest. The brightest lipstick, the most coral color she could find. Also the opaquest (or more correctly most opaque). And while I did not buy coral lipstick (because that would be a horrible mistake), I found myself at the MAC counter asking for the reddest lipstick they had. At the Macy's MAC counter that is "Lady Woo" but I didn't like the salesgirl, so I went to the Nordstrom MAC counter. There version of reddest is "MAC Red" and "Lady Bug" . . . and the salesgirl was all about my hair (it was faux-hawky today), so we were fast friends. Tried things on. Went with the MAC Red. A good blue red. Very much like the Wet n' Wild stuff I used to wear in college (M1 remember? I think you still have some in your bathroom, don't you?) except that this wasn't a dollar. Stays on the same way too. Gotta love a bright red lipstick that you can sleep in and wake up with lips still red.

Flora was not satisfied with just the reddest lipstick. I then went for the pinkest (and therefore I know how hard it is to get the MAC Red off). Bought something called "Pervette" . . . sheer but very pink. With a thick layer of this placed on my lips, Flora was somehow appeased. Amazing that I didn't have an urge to do something with my hair . . . or a hankering for crispy chicken salad. Maybe she flew off to make sure my sister is wearing enough mascara. Merry xmas Grandma, whereever you are. Thanks for the presents.

And thank you for saving me from buying the sweater.

Ghost of my Grandmother and Milford Mommies

The Starbucks in downtown Milford has a waterfall out back. This is very nice . . . relaxing, in fact. The inside of the Starbucks of Milford, however, has Milford Mommies. These were not relaxing. Children everywhere . . . in those baby buckets, toddling around, using little mini strollers for their dollies which were bigger than them and hard to steer. At least I'd like to think it was hard to steer, since I was hit with it several times in the ankle. I think dolly strollers, especially the large double dolly kind, are in the "at home" toy catagory. But nobody ever asks me about such things. So Milford Starbucks on a Wednesday at 10:30 a.m. . . . five or six stay at home moms with several children each in tow, two guys on cell phones, three employees and me. Took some cool pics of the waterfall though.

Yesterday, in my father's drug haze, he pointed out that a turquiose dot looked a lot like his mother. I followed his line of vision and sure enough, there was woman in a turquiose outfit that, if she stood still, did in fact look like my grandmother. Except that you couldn't see her lipstick from 50 yards, so it couldn't have been my grandmother.

My grandmother was very fond of two things: makeup (lipstick in particular) and attention. I used to think it was just attention from men. She was very proud of having a boyfriend at the old person habitrail. But I truly now think that she just liked attention from anyone. She was very concerned about my appearance also . . . once confiding with my siblings that she was afraid that I was turning out to be a "slob". It seems in her mind that lipstick was a very crucial element to being attractive to the opposite sex and to getting attention. Perhaps she was right.

Currently, I'm on a kick where I cannot leave the house without mascara on . . . I don't have to wear any other makeup but am suddenly all about the mascara. It reminds me of my grandmother. The looking in the mirror and pursing of her lips critically. The whipping out of the mirror and lipstick for the after eating re-application ritual. No, I don't need to re-apply mascara after eating . . . but it's the same idea. So thinking about my grandmother . . . must be all the hospital-ness. She was a nurse. Even at the end, when she was trying to nurse her boyfriend from her hospital bed. Checking on what he had eaten that day and his vitals.

I think she would be pleased about the mascara . . . and tell me to put on more "Viva Glam IV". Cause a girl might as well be naked (and not in a good way) without her lipstick.

Can we tell that I don't have enough to do at Stately Wayne Manor? Change the ice every three hours and watch my father watch bad television. Magnum P.I. currently.

"Fingernails That Shine Like Justice" II

There is a rhythm to getting a manicure and a pedicure that I'm not yet familar with. I think everything happens in the same order . . . but being a newbie, I'm not sure about the order. When to put your foot down and lift the other. When the hot towels are suppose to come. When to get the money out, which is not at the end because your nails are wet.

It's not something that I want to do every two weeks. It's a bit expensive . . . although we all know what I spend on my coffee habit. There's something about being waited on. I mean, the lady is washing your feet. Maybe it's the fact that I'm perfectly capable of painting my nails myself . . . but then again, I do have an espresso maker at home and I feel totally comfortable paying someone to make that for me.

And you have to relax, which I have a problem with . . . poor manicurist kept telling me to relax my hands and I had to think really hard in order to accomplish that for her. But my nails look really good. And they're real and mine and everything. And red . . . they're really really red.

A Horror Movie Where No One Gets Killed

Okay, so I either had a little serotonin dip or my hormones are totally out of wack . . . I feel much better today for some unknown reason.

My grandmother, the one with the lipstick obsession, used to go through these funks. Except that she did hers at the speed of light; going from mean, to laughing, to crying, in moments. Mine now last a week or so but I KNOW that they are something physical. It's doesn't have to do with what's going on in my life. I cry at the drop of a hat . . . I feel all . . . best I can describe it is scratchy, not right in my skin. It's like dread enfolds you and you have these waves of anxiety for no reason. It's like the part of the horror movie where nothing has happened yet . . . but the music has started and it's only a matter of time before the actor with the small part is killed. Your body is stuck in that feeling.

The really fun part for me is that I know that it is totally irrational. I KNOW it but I can't feel it. So my body is totally on edge and my mind keeps trying to talk it down . . . "Why are we feeling like this? Is it your job? Do you hate your job? . . . Is it because you're not married? With 2.5 kids and a Volvo? We really did want a Volvo . . . " But maybe there are no reasons . . . maybe my body chemistry is just out of wack.

So much more level today. Hopefully, just a bad bout of PMS.

One of Those Girls

I've become one of "those" girls . . . my sister pointed out as I quoted the calorie counts for soy lattes versus non-fat milk lattes. The girls who only order chicken caesar salads. The girls who share dessert three (or eight) ways. The girls who say, "Oh, I couldn't possibly eat that." Those girls.

My grandmother was one of "those" girls. She never finished a meal while eating with other people. She never ate dessert. She was constantly complaining about her weight (and my weight, and my father's weight . . . come to think of it). With the lipstick obsession (lipstick was always reapplied after eating, it was often checked at random intervals), the food obsession was just annoying. Plus my grandmother always ordered the salad with fried chicken fingers . . . it just didn't make sense.

And now I'm looking up the calories on the internet for my daily crack, I mean soy, latte from Starbucks. I check my lipstick. I try to walk everyday. And I do feel better about myself. But still . . . so don't want to be one of "those" girls . . . eehwoo.

Girly, Girly, Girly, Girly, Girl . . .

So I'm obsessed with nail polish. And I bought a toe ring. I now own things like "non-chipping top coats" and "vitamin-based base coats". I'm painting my nails while listening to the call-in car repair show and occasionally shouting a diagnosis before they can answer it. Currently, I waiting for "Poetic Peony" to dry. I don't know about the poetic part but it is bright "hello kitty" like pink.

And I'm going to get my hair done in an hour. With highlights, I think. I must be possessed. Perhaps by my Grandmother. Soon I will be craving turquiose and pant suits. Wait, I just bought a turquiose hand towel on sale at Target. ACK! Soon I will be repeatedly adjusting my lipstick and vexing about my lack of white shoes.

The toe ring is a sparkly skull . . . so I might not be possessed that much.