Make-up counter culture

When I was a kid, I was crushed out on the make-up counter girls at department stores.  They were pretty, glamorous, and flawless. They sold stuff that made you beautiful and came in neat little packages. They wore lots of my favorite color, black. (I was a morbid child.)

After some life experience, I came to learn that there is little glamour in retail, that such flawlessness has a price, and that black is not a technically a color, it’s a shade.

A few years ago, I was at Macy’s, waiting for my then-boyfriend outside the men’s room. I was concentrating on staying put. Not leaving that spot was a plea on his part, as I have the annoying habit of wandering off in stores. (I can’t help it--so many shiny things.)

Anyway, I was standing there, minding my own business, when this airbrushed-looking girl with platform heels, tight jeans, and a huge off-the-shoulder shirt walked past me. She stopped in her tracks and looked at me askance. “Oh my god. You have to come with me. You have to let me show you something.” At this point I saw her name tag: Jamie, Urban Decay.

“Oh, no no no,” I told her.

“It will just take a minute. I promise you, you’ll love it. How’s this: if you don’t totally love it, I will give you a free gift.” 

That seemed like some faulty-ass logic, and I refused.

At this point, she TOOK ME BY MY WRIST and led me away; shock disabled my resistance. She dragged me over to her counter and sat me in a director’s chair. Immediately, she knocked back my forehead with the palm of her hand and went to work on my eyebrows.

“Oh my god, honey,” she said to me. “You are so gosh-darn ca-yuuuuuute!” 

I felt as though there was a "but" coming.

  

“But," she continued, fussing, “you dye your hair, and it’s super dark, and so,” she fluffed my forehead with a brush, “you must darken your eyebrows.  They’re too light.  They get lost in your face.”  She held up a mirror and showed me myself with Peter Gallagher-core eyebrows. 

“But I don’t dye my hair.”

“What?!” she gasped, stumbling back. “Shut. Up. You’re kidding me.” She grabbed a fistful of my hair.

“I guess my eyebrows are just naturally mismatched?”

She laughed. “Oh honey! You are too much. Now. I have something else you are going to love: mineral make up.”

"No, really--" 

She stood firmly in front of me so there was no escape, and then, for whatever reason, made me orange.

“See,” she said, “you have dark hair and like reeeeeally pale skin, so you should use a bronzer. It’s good coverage for your freckles too. This one’s an awesome deal today—”

At this point, my boyfriend came walking by, annoyed, his hands up in the air.

“What the hell?  I was gone for like two minutes.”

“Uh oh!” the make-up girl said. She feigned secrecy and leaned in to me. “Looks like someone’s ma-aaad!” Then she leaned in to him, “How can you be mad? Look how fabulous she is."

  

“Let's go," I said to him.

“Well, my name’s Jamie, and if you need anything else—”

Walking away from the cosmetics department, my boyfriend asked, “why’d you leave me? And why the fuck did she make you orange?”

I was angry at her aggressiveness. And for about half a second, I doubted myself. My eyebrows get lost in my face? That’s awful! Was my hair too dark, my eyebrows too light, my skin too pale? Was it bad to be okay with my freckles? Should I do something about these things? God, if only there were products I could buy to take care of these horrors!

Then I came to my senses. And I had a mind to take her out behind the Gap and kick her ass.

I've come to realize she wasn't merely one bad apple, though she was quite bad. Another time, I witnessed a salesgirl tell my friend, who hadn't solicited advice, to “get something to cover those dark circles.” And another, I watched a woman half my mom’s age literally, physically slap her hand for using Dove soap on her face. 

This must be the main tenant they impart at Cosmetics U: foster just enough insecurity to make a woman feel wrong and uncomfortable in her skin and just enough hope to get her to believe a fix--if not beauty--is in her grasp.

It often works, but it sure ain't pretty.

Sh-t *My* Dad Says

So, if you haven’t already read it, go get Justin Halpern’s book, “Sh*t My Dad Says,” read it, and relate.  Or don’t relate.  But holy hell, I sure related.

Halpern’s schtick is this: he started a Twitter feed and then a website to share the never-ending string of colorful (read: offensive, fucked up, and generally unbelievable) things his dad has said to him over the years.  In the process, he gained a following.  ‘Cause let’s face it, other people’s eccentric and embarrassing parents are hi-larious.

My dad just read this book; my sister gave it to him for Christmas.  The irony of the gift was noted by all but him.  After all, tomes could be compiled based on the shit my dad says, though I’m not sure he realizes what comes out of his mouth or the impact it has. 

Halpern’s dad and my dad have their often inopportune outspokenness and love for their children in common, but they possess different life paths and personalities.  My dad, for instance, is pretty guileless in his blurtings.  I don’t think he’s ever intended anything by them, nor has he ever given them a second thought once they’ve passed his lips.  He’s just what some call a character, others a free spirit, and yet others a sonofabitch.

Regardless, my dad wants to meet Halpern’s dad; he sees him as some sort of irreverent, no bullshit hero.  I, on the other hand, want to meet Halpern.  I want to shake his hand, buy him a drink, and swap stories.  We have more in common than he knows: we’re the same age, we grew up in the same city, and the intro to his book tells a painfully familiar story.  The redux: failed relationship; home with the ‘rents (at an age no one wants to be living with the ‘rents); a father whose utterances seem to stem from a frontal lobe lesion.

For Halpern, the result is a flood of reportage on his dad’s quips, and it’s an impressively compiled and narrated book.  I mean, it’s not everyone who can look at the humor or wisdom in effectively being called a dumb shit most of his life.  Reading onto it from my perspective, I imagine that this project served a therapeutic purpose for him.  

In this therapeutic vein, I thought I’d compile a daughter’s perspective of some sh*t her dad says.  So here's a choice sampling to pay homage to Halpern and his endeavor. 

My dad, detecting my sister’s new perfume:

    “You smell like a goddamn pineapple.”

To me having a meltdown at seven years old:

     “Stop crying like that; you sound like a wildebeest.”

Without any particular segue, in front of a large group of strangers:

     “You know, I don’t know why you think you’re ugly and fat.  You’re not.”*

Upon describing how he taught a young coworker to do something:

     “You should have seen it.  He knew nothing, I taught him everything.  It was like Pygmalion.”

Upon retelling how he helped a lady reach something at Home Depot:

     “It was like Robin Hood.  She had tears in her eyes, she was so thankful.”

On seeing a hipster’s boots:

     (Loudly, pointing.) “Look at that asshole’s pointy shoes!”

Supporting me through a career crisis:

     “Quit that fucking job, come live here, and be a shithead while you figure out how to make some real money.”

Getting ice cream as a kid:

     "Tell the lady what you want.  ACHK, mint chocolate chip?!  You sure about that?  It tastes like fucking frozen toothpaste!"

Giving beauty advice:

     “You look real nice, except you could maybe wear shorts once in a while and get a tan on your legs.”

Every time he sees Steve Carrell:

     “I don’t know what it is, but I do not like that guy.  He’s a fucking squid.  A squid!  He just irks me, I don't know what it is.”

And, last but not least, being encouraging:

     “You should write something.  It’s okay if it turns out stupid.  People buy stupid shit.”

(* Author’s note: I never said anything to him about being ugly or fat.)

RIP, Letters

The Huffington Post recently released a list of 20 things that became obsolete in the 2000s.  Many of the list’s items seemed to have left our daily lives long ago (VHS, telephone books).  Other obsolete things are off my radar (say, 1-900 number phone sex).  And still others seem not quite obsolete yet (bookstores—we have them for the moment, as far as I can see.)

On the list are letters of the hand-written, stamped, and mailed variety.  This item, of all twenty, is the most regrettable to me.  Maybe it’s my romantic side, my penchant for words made tangible, my appreciation for stationary (letterpress and foiling and embossing, oh my!) Or maybe it’s me moving into the old biddy phase of my life where I bemoan the end of the good old days.

In any case, I've always liked letters, equally for the writing and the receiving.  As a kid, I would spend a great deal of time writing a letter, practicing my best cursive (when else are you gonna use it?), peppering in whimsical little illustrations, exchanging with friends, family, and my two pen pals in Japan and Australia. 

Also, like many, my earliest romances hinged on letters.  You remember the drill: it started with the classic loose-leaf note, folded intricately with a little pull tab, passed in class or delivered by a giggling friend.  It said something along the lines of: “Do you like me?  Circle one: No.  Yes.  Maybe.”  If you circled one of the latter boxes, you might progress into serious love letters with a multitude of P.S.-es and feelings too big to say aloud.

These letters, if you didn’t burn them at the inevitable end of the romance (usually about 2-4 weeks), you probably kept somewhere with your old yearbooks and junk.  And that’s the great things about letters—the keeping.

A few years ago, my Great Aunt Lu died.  She was a cool lady who took an interest in me for whatever reason, and we had a relationship based nearly entirely on written correspondence.

When she passed away at the age of 90, her son asked my mom and me to go through her things.  In the course of sorting, I found every letter I ever wrote to her neatly folded in a circa-1960s golf shoe box.

She said she enjoyed receiving my letters, but I hadn’t realized she cared enough to keep them.  She had my letters spanning my young childhood 'til the weeks before her death.  She had letters from her son (who was in his mid-sixties when she passed) from summer camp to college, letters from his teachers, letters from her siblings, her husband, friends long since passed.  The time capsule in her cupboard was powerful.

I am an e-mailer, a texter, a Facebooker, a blogger.  I love these modes of communication endlessly and cannot imagine a world in which they didn’t exist.  But I’m not sure that I’d ever feel the same way sorting back through the depths of my inbox as I would physically unfolding and going through old notes and letters.  I can’t imagine looking through my grandparents’ correspondence on a screen or reading Rilke’s “E-mails to a Young Poet."  It seems wrong to not get an actual paper "thank you" or wedding invitation, and no postcards is no fun.

Something happens in the writing, giving, and receiving of a letter that makes it its own artifact worthy of keeping.  And while I can do without travel agents, landlines, and maps (and I do love me some maps), a world without letters is a little less charming. 

In the spirit of not giving

Now that we “kids” are long grown, and the next generation is here, my family doesn’t do Christmas presents anymore. 

And I feel like a horrible Scrooge-ette for loving it.

Now, I do enjoy some things about Christmas presents.  Like Christmas shopping.  

Well, on second thought, I love it in theory.  In theory, I’m on Fifth or Michigan Avenue in a kick-ass swing coat and matching accessories with tons of fashionable stores’ bags (which I think I covet more than the things inside them sometimes; ever seen some of those bags?). Carolers are singing, spicy scents are in the air, snow is falling gently, boughs and holly are decking ye olde halls, and I can afford to get everybody the perfect thing.

In reality, my cute sweater is too hot for the weather, people are cursing at each other for parking lot infractions, everything in the stores looks the same, things are just a little too bright and shiny, my feet hurt and I’m thirsty and I have the dizzy, discombobulated feeling I get in malls.  Not to mention I’m broke.

I do love giving in general.  I am a giver by nature (a therapist might say to a fault) and am happy to give my time and energy to others.  I bake treats for my students and am a firm believer in the hostess gift.  I frequently say, “Let me buy you a drink/dinner/dessert to celebrate X,” X being a birthday, promotion, exam, Tuesday, etc.  I like to give handmade gifts, I donate regularly to a few charities, and one of my favorite things to think about is what I’d get everyone if I won the lottery someday.

But, I have got to say, it is incredibly liberating to just say “my family, we don’t do gifts.”

Part of the liberation is the problem of cost.  And I don’t mean that I mind spending on those I love; I don’t.  What I mean is that the cost of things my family actually needs is too great—that’s why they don’t have them in the first place!  What they need is their line of credit paid off for a few months. They need a new roof.  Mom could use a new car.

And the same for me.  When asked for Christmas, “what do you need?” my answer of “nothing” is true and not true.  True in that I have food, shelter, safety, love, etc. and all my needs are fulfilled. Not true in that I could do without this car payment, a new TV would be pretty nice (mostly so that people will stop laughing at how old and huge mine is), and I’d love a vacation.

But there is one kind of gift I don’t want to receive, ever, and that’s the gift that puts someone else in debt.

This year, my niece and nephew are getting a lil’ something, since what’s more fun than watching kids open presents on Christmas? I’m also exchanging with a few friends who I like to exchange with.

Otherwise, I’m getting everyone the best gift of all: the gift of not having to get me a gift.

You're welcome.

Senior Year, Take Two

Rewind through four years of having a full-time job and making a living.  Rewind back through having a two-bedroom condo in a nice part of town, enjoying an expendable income, feeling somewhat settled. Rewind through a quarter of a Ph d that wasn’t meant to be.  Rewind through two years of grad school in English, through the thesis research and writing, the seminars, the happy hour dinners, the cohort bitchfests, the earliest nerve-wracking days of wondering whether you’re gonna measure up.

And that’s where you’ll find me now.  At the age of 30.  Starting again in a new field with a new degree and a new path.

I’ve started over.  Dumped out my life like all the junk in a big ol’ handbag.  I sorted through the contents, dusted off and kept the essentials, threw out the accumulated gum wrappers, expired coupons, crushed packages of saltines, and started anew.  (Note: this is an analogy: don’t actually look in my purse, ‘cause it’s a mess.)

What I didn’t expect was to be an undergraduate again. See, my program has a bonus year for folks who need leveler coursework, so a group of us get to take undergrad classes to catch up to the rest of the MAs.

So I’ve rewinded even further.  Straight into undergrad.  In fact, on the first day of classes, I was walking with some of my cohort members and got solicited to rush a sorority.  (Note: I think this has something to do with my classmates being pretty and blonde.) I learned that instead of seminars, I’d have quizzes and homework and group projects.  I’d be making flashcards. I was eligible to stay in the dorms and have a meal plan.

I was annoyed that the cost of starting over was being thrown back in the chaos of senior year of college.  In my experience, this was the year when the university has lost its promise as a “bustling marketplace of ideas.” When you start to see with your icky, pukey-colored glasses the business of the university and your implicit role in contributing to “the machine,” as Mario Savio put it. When you just want out and into the all-too-overhyped “real world,” even if you aren’t sure what you’ll do in it.  My memories of my senior year of college (my fifth year, I might add) involve feeling confined, antsy, worried, and plain over it.

This is my new beginning? 

But what I’ve learned is that being a second time undergrad—even for only for a shot time—is a neat opportunity.

Ever say to yourself, “If I knew then what I know now”?  That is what this year has come to be about. I can put into practice all the things I wished I’d done as an undergrad but was too short-sighted and inexperienced to understand.

As in/like:

• Less thinking about grades and more thinking. 
• Less figuring out the answer and more figuring out the questions. 
• Using fellow students as collaborators, not competitors. 
• Using professors as resources, not rungs. 
• Realizing professors are people.
• Asking good questions.
• Asking dumb questions.
• Asking questions.
• Taking advantage of the library, the student buss pass, the cheap gym, the free birth control.
• Doing the reading.
• Studying on a Friday night.
• Partying on a Tuesday night.
• Knowing that the journey is the destination, and other trite but true shit.

I may have rewound straight past all the “progress” I’d made, straight back through my adulthood. I may be a senior citizen, as far as my classmates are concerned.  But I’m here, doing my second senior year at 30 years old.  Wiser, and without the senioritis.  'Cause what's the rush?

Tulip's Heritage

Since adopting my dog, Tulip, back in November, I have become used to the question most people ask when they see her: "What is that?"

It is a question asked with genuine incredulity and a touch of dismay.

The thing is, Tulip looks... special. With a mop of tight little gray jheri curls on her head and butt, eyebrows like an old man, a crooked underbite of a smile, and a firecracker tail, she draws attention in the form of gasps and giggles wherever we go.

I typically respond to the question with something like, "She has the best personality ever." Which is absolutely true. Plus, my wounded retort, "what is THAT?" in reference to the person's dog sorely backfired. ("Uh, it's a yellow lab.")

Truth be told, I have no idea what Tulip is. She looks part dog, part Ewok, part Sir Didamus from Labyrinth, part "before" picture for a cosmetic dentistry advertisement.

The profile in her kennel at the shelter said "ghost gray miniature poodle mix??" But I am left wondering what she really is and if it's okay to feed her after midnight.

The other day, believing she found the answer to some of these questions, my mom jacked a copy of Web MD Pets from the doctor's office to show me (she's not usually a thief...). On the cover is a photograph of the lovely Lisa Edelstein (of House fame) with her two dogs.

Lo and behold: there was Tulip's long-lost relative! A little scrappy miniature poodle-schnauzer living the high life with his celebrity human.

So when people ask what my Tulip is, I suppose I have an answer. She's a designer dog! A dog fit for a celebrity and the cover of a magazine! A rarity, a unique snowflake of a thing!

That said, I dearly hope that what they say about owners and their dogs growing to look alike is not true...

But if we do, so be it. I'll just have to work on my personality...