The Eyebrows Have It

I hated my eyebrows when I was a teenager.
To me, they looked like wooly worms run wild above my eyes. Most fair skinned, light-haired girls I knew also had nice light brows. Some even knew how to tweeze them (Emily: if you ever run across this post, note that I said "tweeze" not "pluck" because, as you always chided me, "You tweeze your brows; you pluck a chicken.) into these amazing--and looking back on it rather Geisha-esque--mini arches.

My brows now aren't wormish at all so I doubt they really were that dark and thick as a teen. But they aren't invisible either. Going gray a bit and definitely thinner but they are still a real presence on my face and I love them. My mother had no brows or lashes. She said she had singed them off lighting a cigar one time but that sounds apocryphal--although I know she did have quite a wild streak (which I wish I had inherited). She would try to pencil brows in but that really doesn't work if you've got no hairs to work with, so she achieved more of a Bozo effect. I think she was happy when she got old enough to not feel she had to work that hard at makeup anymore.

After a solid four decades of just trying to ignore what I saw as Giant Schnauzer brows, I now tend to their grooming lovingly. Following the mantra of such brow queens as Anastasia, I try to tweeze just the rowdy hairs that fall outside the imagined main arches. But I don't really bother to try to get an arch anyway--my left eyebrow is naturally just much straighter across and I'm ok with that. Isn't that a dandy perk of age, when at least with one or two things about our faces and bodies, we actually come to accept asymmetry? And I know they tell you to only tweeze below the brow, not above, but, sorry, I think some of my brow hairs are trying to make a sprint up to fill in the thinning of my hairline. If I thought it might work, I'd look the other way and let them head for the border but I don't think that'll happen, so out they come.

And the last step of my makeup routine every day is brush-on brow gel. I used to use clear but since my hair is darker now (shhh, yes I dye it.) and my brows are grayer, I'm using a tint. Brow gel, if you've never used it, brushes on like mascara and it's the only stuff I can get to look natural: pencils and liquids befuddle me because they get applied to the skin around the hairs and that's not what I want. My current love is from Armani and is listed as "limited edition." They stop making it and I'm doomed.

Wow, a whole post about something I like about my appearance. I must have stayed out in the shade too long.

The Self Made(up) (Wo)Man

Where do I get my vast expertise in applying makeup?

(That's an inside joke for those who actually have seen me and know my expertise is neither vast nor expert.)

Well, many decades ago, I was a Revlon "Charlie Girl." In department stores, while the person in handbags works for the store, not for Coach, and the stylish well-built woman in lingerie doesn't work for Bali, the people--who used to always be women but at least companies are branching out by hiring guys (mostly gay) as well--behind the Clinique and Shiseido counter, although hired by the store, are considered reps of a specific cosmetic line.

"Ah hah" you say "that might explain why I can be standing looking longingly at those lovely Lancome shadow duos, but the distinctly pseudo-French woman standing behind the Chanel counter looks through me like I'm the ghost of Mrs. Muir." Yup, you aren't getting helped until the Lancome chick gets back from lunch break. Sometimes, the Chanel lady will sashay over and when you express interest in the Lancome "Midnight Moon" four-shadow palette, murmur, in her pseudo-French accent "Non, Non! You must come look at Chanel's 'Nuit des Noirs.' Tres chic!" And drag you off to her counter where she convinces you to buy not only the eyeshadow but $200.00 of treatment products.

Back to "Many decades ago"--many, many, many--when Revlon was still a department store line, I was hired right when they brought out Charlie perfume. This did not thrill me. I had to stand around behind the counter, looking perky and cheery--not natural traits for me at all--wearing a British newsboy cap, while a record player endlessly repeated the Charlie theme song. Why I didn't swear off cosmetics altogether at that point, I don't know. Except that we got to keep all the leftover free samples that we didn't give to customers--that was good incentive--and I held out hope that I might seem science geeky enough to be stolen away from Revlon by Clinique: loved those white coats.

But I did learn some valuable lessons from those years:

If you're the governor's wife, don't go shopping for makeup after a three martini lunch--our second profession was gossip.

It's way easier to put false eyelashes on someone else than on yourself.

That said, don't let anyone give you a makeover in a department store unless you're very brave or lack all vanity. Those people are bored; give them a face and they'll work on you till you look like a kabuki actor.

And most of all, don't be intimidated. Poke that Chanel woman with a mascara wand and she'll deflate just like a South Carolina politician.

Where Have All The Passions Gone

Confluences. Synchronicities. Maybe age is responsible for the piling on of connecting moments. On Wednesday afternoon, I walked through Macy's and found myself amazed once again at the peace symbols, flowy gauze, and the sign that proclaimed this fashion season "The Summer of Love." Wednesday night, I watched American Masters' special on Pete Seeger. How similar; how different; how inspiring; how sad.

Although I was only in high school during the original Summer of Love, the migration to the Haight in '67, I was already looking and acting much the classic hippie. Beads and ponchos, water buffalo sandals and, yes, even flowers in my long straight hair. I listened to The Beatles and The Stones but I also continued listening to the music my brother had introduced me to early in the sixties: The Kingston Trio, Joan Baez, Buffy Saint-Marie, Bob Dylan and most importantly of all, Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. I knew the Pete Seeger version of "Little Boxes" but I also heard the original sung by Malvina Reynolds. I read Broadside magazine, went to the coffeehouses at Ohio State and at fifteen dated, much to my parents' dismay, a twenty-year old banjo player in my brother's jug band.

Easy, you might think, for a very middle-class white girl living in an upper middle-class neighborhood to dress the part, much like the girls shopping at Macy's now. But I had something most of them don't: I believed the message. I was Jewish in a WASP enclave; I was incensed by the discrimination my black friends from the Junior Theater group encountered; and I was an "active pacifist." When my school district needed to try to pass a tax levy, I stumped door to door for it and when it was voted down, I wore all black to school, breaking the dress code by wearing pants and a black armband of protest. I don't know how my parents felt about my frequent appearances on the local news being the teen interviewed about local politics such as this and about the anti-war rallies we held, but they never voiced discouragement. Some of my other activities as a "hippie" I'm sure would have not been as easy for them to swallow if they had known (nudge, nudge; wink, wink). But editing and writing for the underground newspaper--not a problem.

And the beat went on. The horror of Kent State--so close to where I lived. Tear gas during the rallies on The Oval at OSU. Anger that I wasn't allowed to go with my brother to Woodstock. And the belief that I was going to make a difference in the world--because people like Pete Seeger said I could.

And yet another confluence, another synchronicity. I read very recently an obituary in The New York Times of a professor: a professor of folklore. And I saw the name, Archie Green, and realized "Oh my God, he was my folklore professor." I took a class from him when he was a visiting prof at Ohio State--such a mild, unassuming man in a plaid work shirt and jeans whose love of his work drew me in. I never imagined that he was considered "the" leading professor of folklore in the country until I read that obituary. And I remember a paper I wrote for him on the portrayal on the American Indian in movies. But now, I remembered something more, remembered him telling me that he thought I should go to law school and become an advocate for the Native American. So I was going to make a difference in the world--because Archie Green said I could.

Although I didn't go to law school, I did go on to become a teacher of college writing even though I could have made more money as a lit teacher. No, I wanted to teach writing, especially remedial writing, because I wanted to make a difference. I read Myna Shaughnessy's book Errors and Expectations which talked about how students who seem only semi-literate will watch errors melt away when they are taught to write ideas and not just words. What a spark was lit! I could make students better writers not by counting their spelling errors but by challenging them to think. I could make a difference in their world--because Myna Shaughnessy said I could.

I never cared about making money. And not making money is the one real success I've had. I own a faltering, always on the verge of closing, business that I put far more money into than I'll ever take out. But where has "making a difference" gone? Oh, I vote, yes, and after Bush invaded Iraq, I even walked into the coffeeshop the next morning and put on a Phil Ochs CD, knowing it would offend some clientele. But listening to Pete Seeger singing "We Shall Overcome" and "Waist Deep in the Big Muddy" and thinking about this 90 year old man standing in the cold to sing at Obama's inauguration, I'm moved and inspired and ashamed and angry.

I always believed I would make a difference--all these great people told me I could--and yet. . .

Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde: "Makeup, Please"

Am I a cosmetic Jekyll and Hyde? Well, not really but I'm so tired of the phrase "High-Low Buying" that any image is better than using that tired cliche.
Better an unexpected and slightly frightening cliche instead, eh? But I am a shapeshifter when it comes to buying cosmetics, sometimes spending absurd money on one product while I spend absurdly little on another. So I thought today I'd take a stroll through some of my recent, favorite makeup and skin care buys. And no, I don't get paid for endorsements, more's the pity, so this unsolicited advice doesn't get me or you much of anything.

First some of the high priced spread:
Dior Diorshow Iconic Mascara: Only comes in Black but what other mascara color do you need? Even blondes look better in black mascara. And save me from the current "fun" colors. Lordy, who needs purple butterflies on their upper lids? Certainly no one our age when it just draws attention to every crevice and crinkle. But Iconic goes on easily, coats well, doesn't get clumpy and either I have curlier lashes than I knew or it does a mighty fine curling job too.

ZO "Oclipse" Foundation Primer: My current amour. I got a sample of this in some swag bag from Nordstrom and fell headlong in love. ZO is a new line by dermatologist Zein Obagi and is hard to find anywhere, no doubt adding to its sex appeal--like these guys aren't good at marketing. It's all outrageously priced but this primer is almost worth its $$$$ rating. Not only does it go on like velvet but it has an SPF 30 that is all physical sunblock: titanium dioxide and zinc oxide. I find I'm reacting badly to some chemical sunblocks these days but I'd prefer not having lifeguard nose. Not a problem with "Oclipse." Its slight tint makes it disappear; I even use it when I'm not putting any makeup over it.

One more through the stratosphere expensive recommendation: Any of Giorgio Armani's foundations--especially the Shaping Cream Foundation. I have not a clue what it's claiming to shape; I haven't noticed that I've gained cheekbones or lost my double chin. But if you ignore the stupid name, you'll end up with a very light, creamy foundation with an SPF 20 that can be very sheer or give more medium coverage without looking like you're wearing foundation. I asked my husband one time whether he thought I looked more "glowy" after I started using it. "No," he said, squinting at me,"but you don't have that line between your face and neck anymore." My God, he could have told me I looked like the Phantom of the Opera!

On to the cheapies:
Favorite go-to for a variety of less expensive items that other lines overprice: Sephora. Their nail serum and cuticle oil saved my shattered nails and scraggy cuticles. And the Sephora by OPI line of polishes has tons of colors to choose from and just like OPI's main line of nail polishes, they don't contain nasty toluene and other chemicals. And the names are irresistable: Let's Do Lunch; Wardrobe Change; Nonfat Soy Half Caff--absolutely no logic to most of them but you'll love the quizzical looks if someone asks the color. I also like some of the Sephora Tricks of the Trade line, especially their Lip A-Peel, an exfoliator for chapped lips that's a kick to use. You spread some on, let it dry, then rub with the ball of your finger and most of it peels right off, just needing a little water to take off the rest. If you press your lips together and then open your mouth while it's drying, you get these great Dawn of the Dead zombie strings. Hey, I guess Mr. Hyde is apt after all.

And when you really want to talk "how low can you go" with prices: E.L.F. (stands for Eyes, Lips, Face) cosmetics. Target ("tar-zhay" if you like) sells them and they sell on their own website too. They just rolled out a new "expensive" Studio line and mineral makeup line in which each item sells for a whopping $3. Their regular line? $1 each. That's right, a buck apiece. Not everything from them is grand but they do great lip glosses that even have sunscreen of SPF 15 and aren't goopy. And their "liquid lipsticks" are light and don't settle into creases. (Who me, lip lines? Just because I'm 55?) The eyeshadow quads are a bit tough to apply without some errant flakes (at $1 for four colors, I can deal) but the eye shadows that go into the custom compact are soft, velvety and apply smoothly. And can we repeat one more time? THEY COST A BUCK EACH! What a mitzvah!

Wow, I think I made it through a whole post with almost no snarkiness. Time to reward myself by splurging on a half dozen new glosses. Oh, and if anyone does want to pay me to endorse. . .oh, never mind, I just can't get over being ethical, damn it.

Susan Boyle & The F-Bomb Heard 'Round The World

Dear Susan,
Thank you, thank you, thank you. I think you proved the point of my Susan Boyle blog perfectly when you sat in a hotel bar and swore at the telly during Britain's Got Talent because the judges were raving up the little girl singer--and then swore at the press when they got in your face for swearing at the telly. Now, who dares to call my gal Susan "frumpy"? Ain't nothin' frumpy about the f-bomb.

Susan's thinking about dropping out of the show. I say, don't do it, honey. Hang in there and show the world that not only does talent have nothing to do with looks, it doesn't have much to do with being "proper" either. Are we all such prigs these days that we can't stand anyone who displays honest human emotion? Yes, as far as I can tell, we are. How else to explain the sweet, former missionary boy winning the American version of BGT instead of the slightly--and I do mean, only slightly--edgy, eyelinered vocal whiz. Oh, my, he suggested he might be gay? Well, we can't have that, can we, at least not in all but five of these here United States, by golly.

Miss California can bare all, not show up for contracted appearances and rip the pageant officials off for her boob job and still keep her 1st runner up position as long as she denounces "opposite marriage"--what a charming phrase really; which one of us really marries our genetic clone? And let's not forget, much as we might try, Tammy Faye Bakker. If we're going to get in a snit about a little eyeliner, we would have started with her. We are the world--as long as none of that world steps out of the "moral" line of the moment.

I loved the way Susan Boyle looked in her jeans and tweezed brows after her makeover and I love her even more now that she not only looks a bit like a barmaid but sounds a bit like one too. Where can I vote for her? And how often?

How I Spent My Summer

I'll spend my summer as I always do: looking for summer clothes that don't make me look like a 12-year-old or an 80-year-old.
(And my apologies to chic 80-year-olds out there but you know what I mean.)

This year, in fact, I have to add a third category to the "clothing I don't want on my body this summer" list: early 70's knockoffs. Been there, done that--braless, in fact--don't want to do it again, with or without my Bali minimizer. I walked past a Michael Kors white gauze peasant blouse the other day in Macy's, turned to my husband and said, "I owned that." Really. Kors should be ashamed that he stole it from me. It's not like I want to relive that memory, either. I was wearing it the day my Shakespeare professor kissed me--not in a fatherly way. If I want to relive any era with my clothing then I should be wearing what I wore when I was 3--talk about the good years!

As much as I'm relieved after a long, no, make that endless, Wisconsin winter to see leaves and listen to twittering (in the old-fashioned sense) sparrows, I hate trying to dress. Winter is easy: Jeans, boots, and a sweater and you're good to go, regardless of age, weight, or gender, for that matter. Come Summer and I'm stumped as well as stumpy. Do I wear gauzy, empire waist tees and white denim low-rise shorts because that's 90% of what I see hanging in stores? Oh, please. I'm 55, gaining so rapidly on 56 I'm afraid I'll overtake it and go right for 57. As pale as my skin is, no one really wants me blinding them with my ivory gams. And the adorable--and I don't mean that kindly--sleeveless empires out there manage to address in one tiny piece of fabric most of my upper body faults. Empire waists--fine if you have no boobs. If you do, you'll look pregnant and I don't want to end being mistaken for a late-life reproducer. Sleeveless? Well, if you're a woman my age, I probably don't have to tell you that triceps are one of the first things to go. In fact, it happens overnight. One day, you hold your arm up to shave and look fine; the next day you have to tie the loose skin out of the way first.

And other options? Can we still refer to certain styles as caftans and muu-muus? Because I'm seeing them out there. The thinking (do the people who design those think?) behind them seems to be that you'll feel like a Saudi Prince--they will hide all your bulges while letting cool breezes flow around you all the while protecting you from those nasty UV rays. Well, remember, the last person who looked really good in a caftan was Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. And, honey, you and I aren't Peter O'Toole (in fact, one danger is we might look too much like him dressed like that). There are other loose, drapey, more discreet styles out there, of course, but--and I'm about to get myself in real trouble with fans of Eileen Fisher--most of those aren't that much more attractive unless you are 5'9" or above and thin and willowy. Let's see, I'm 5'2 3/4" and shrinking. And willowy? No, more Baobab-y.

Do I have an answer? No, which is why I'll spend the whole summer looking. But I've made a few decisions. I'll try to work out so that at least the flab is a bit tauter here and there. And I'll care less about how cool I look and more about how cool I feel. That means, I will wear shorts--but not low-rise white denim (OK, confession, I actually do have a pair; I just don't wear them in public)--and tank tops, simple cotton ones with no unnecessary seams, no cute sayings on them, and no ruffly necklines. Is this a sign of maturity, that I'm finally coming to terms with myself and my image? . . .Nah. It's hot flashes.

Can We Leave Susan Boyle Alone Now?

First task of the day: get people to stop using the word "dowdy" to refer to anyone less polished than Beyonce.
When I see someone refer to Oprah as "dowdy," I know things have gotten way outta hand. And the term really doesn't apply to Susan Boyle either, the uni-browed singing phenom on "Britain's Got Talent." The word connotes not just unpolished or a bad dresser but someone who is a bit of a shy bird, lacking in confidence as well as tweezers. And there is no way to call a woman willing to stand in front of Simon Cowell in a grocery-bag-shaped dress and belt out a song from Les Miserables a "shy bird."

Second task of the day: stop thinking that anyone who is talented and gets rewarded for that talent should look like Beyonce. Have you ever seen Fanny Brice? I mean, the real Fanny Brice, not the one played by the supposedly "homely" Barbara Streisand. (If not, that's her in the photo. On the right, honey, on the right.) Fanny Brice was truly not a pretty woman, with her big features and angular body. Yet she was a powerhouse as a singer and a comedienne, as evidenced by her getting Ziegfeld to look at or listen to her twice, given his "I only have eyes for boobs" predilections. And getting back to Oprah--excuse me, what would you call dowdy about her, exactly, except that she goes up and down in weight. I've seen Michelle Obama look "dowdier" than O.

And, yes, there is a third task of the day: Quit ripping on Susan Boyle because she had a "makeover." Rather than assuming that she was forced into changing her look by the media, maybe she saw her celebrity as an opportunity to make changes in her style that she had been wanting to make. No one was going to give her advice, help and financial assistance to get trimmed, plucked and put in a new outfit before she wowed the audience with her voice. I saw the before and after photos. And she looked pretty damn comfortable in her own skin in the "after." Like she was saying, "Screw you. Now who's dowdy." If we want to be ticked about a "makeover," let's direct our ire toward the pageant officials for Miss USA, who paid for Miss California's "figure enhancements"--i.e. breast implants--because they wanted her to feel "confident" on stage. If she wasn't confident enough in her body to be on that stage, why did she run for Miss California to begin with. And, oh, pageant dudes? I really don't think I can feel my most confident unless I'm wearing an 8-carat diamond ring and matching diamond chandelier earrings from Harry Winston. Pony up.

Talent isn't beauty; beauty isn't talent. I think that's inscribed on an urn somewhere. Or should be. I'm never going to look like Beyonce, but I'm not giving up my tweezers. You?

On A Motherless, Childless Mother's Day

The day is filled with signs of Mother's Day discounts--buy Mom a dozen flowers and get 50% off, FTD promises (doesn't this seem to miss some of the spirit?)--gigantic, overfattening, oversalted Mother's Day Buffets, and reminders that it's never too late to buy a silver-lined, grande-sized, sentiment-logged Hallmark card.

The day feels different for women who fall outside the "mother circle." I never had children although I became a stepmother to one (and a "step-stepmother" to my husband's stepson) in mid-life. Both were adults by then, however, so I never was called on to play "mommy." My stepson used to introduce me as "my Dad's chick." I took that as a compliment.

I am not truly motherless either, of course, not having sprung fully formed from Hera's head. Nor was I an adoptee, who rather than being motherless has two--a "birth" mother and an "adoptive" mother. But like many women my age, I have no living mother to celebrate with. My mother died last August--and before. After being the child closest to my mother--probably because I was the baby--the one who still went on trips with my parents into adulthood, the daughter she moved 500 miles to be with to help recover from anorexia, the one who always told her the truth about her petty envies and sometimes unkind treatment of my father, who would have worn chains for her, my mother slid into full dementia some years ago. My sister became the caretaker child and my heroine then because my parents had moved back to my hometown where my sister still lived. I saw my mother only sporadically.

The few times I did see her--with the exception of the last--were sad frustrations. Once she lay in a hospital bed after breaking her hip and never woke enough for me to know whether she would recognize me. A year later, she was awake and seemed to respond the first day I visited, laughing and holding out her hand to me, but by the next, she looked through me as though I was just another nurse coming into the room. The last time I saw her, though, was quite lovely. I was resigned to her not recognizing me, so that was no shock. And she had grown back to amazing physical health. She and my father, still adoring as ever, shared the same nursing home room and I was back for a family "party" for my father's birthday. Mother was sitting up in a chair, hair pulled back into a ponytail, fingernails painted a rosy pink by the staff, unaware of who most of us were but truly, giddily happy, laughing at any comment, watching the action closely, ooh-ing over the cake she wasn't able to eat. She didn't talk much and even less made sense but at one point she pointed to my brother and declared quite firmly, "I have just one thing to say to you. . ." Since that was as long a train of thought as she could hold, we had a grand, silly, just-like-old-family-times go-round of filling in the sentence for her: ". . .get a haircut."; ". . .finish your vegetables"(he's been a vegetarian for 40 years).

A few months later, her heart gave out. I didn't see her again.

And yet, that's not true. I have an amazingly beautiful photo of my mother and father on their wedding day: he was a pilot in WWII on leave in Virginia; she was a customer service rep in Pennsylvania. They met in college and had been in love for years, much to the dismay of both their mothers. An urban Jewish kid from Atlantic City, NJ and a country club debutante Episcopalian from Mt. Penn, PA were not supposed to fall in love in 1939. He wrote to her when he knew he was getting leave, asking her to get together $50 to match the $50 he had, and to elope with him in Roanoke. In the photo, Father in his officer's uniform, Mother in a lace-lapel suit, they were Hollywood stunning, a Paul Newman-Joanne Woodward combo.

And beyond that photo, my mother is with me in two more ways: one minor; one deeply inescapable. The one tangible item I inherited from her--the only one I wanted--is the minor one: her wedding band. The other I inherited from her as well: I look, not exactly like her, but so close that no one ever doubted whose daughter I was. I certainly never did and never will as long as there is a mirror to look into--and as long as I can recognize my own face.

"The Mirror...The Mirror"

I imagine Joseph Conrad standing in his tighty-whities in the dressing room of Marks & Spencer when inspired to write in Heart of Darkness: "the horror. . .the horror. . ."

If there is one place where interior design should flatter, you would think it would be store dressing rooms. There the shopper stands, in the most revealing, vulnerable position one can be--no, not sex, hormones take over there--stripped to their skivvies surrounded by mirrors. Nowhere to run; truly in a room that tiny, nowhere to hide. A size 8 dress in hand, looking at what appears now to be a size 12 body, back rolls and muffin tops inescapable under the least flattering lighting ever made--fluorescents. Is Edison responsible for those? If so, rip his pages right out of the history book, mama. Other than saving energy--pshh tshh, what a bore--they have nothing to redeem them. Harsh, casting an Elphaba spinach wash no matter your skin tone, flickering enough to set off a seizure, at least a migraine, who wouldn't look like a misshapen horny toad under them?

Then we're given no place to sit other than a hard piece of plastic, either fat-splaying if we have padding or painful if our butts lack the SpongeBob look of current Burger King ads. And in many dressing rooms, the doors look like they belong in a Western saloon, open at top and bottom so the salesperson can check out our varicose shins. It's a wonder the cash register ever rings. Particularly amusing, in a sick, John Waters way, are those stores that cater to a young unisex crowd whose dressing rooms open out directly onto the sales floor. Oh wait, that crowd might look ok naked in front of their peers but Chico's does this. Here's a store completely geared toward making older women think they can still wear rhinestone-emblazoned denim as long as the large size is deceptively called "a European 3," yet they make you strip where the ever-so-helpful saleswoman can whip the door open to expose your all to all and ask "Can I get you another size, honey? Now, don't buy too big or you'll just look shapeless!" If by shapeless she means like The Invisible Man, I'll take it.

I tried on bathing suits last year. There--I confess--I bravely took clothing that is meant only to show the worst parts of a body into a room that ensures those parts will be their least flattering and got naked. And...didn't buy a bathing suit. How could I convince myself I would be able to walk around a hotel swimming pool when I wouldn't have left that room if I was about to be dragged to Kansas by Dorothy's tornado? You and your little. . .oh, never mind. Nothing was little.

Here are my suggestions. Make dressing rooms half again as big, so we don't feel like Alice after nipping from the "drink me" bottle. Add something padded in a dark neutral color to sit on, something that wraps around and like a little black dress hides a bit of the pudge. Put in enough hanging space so we don't have to dump our own clothes into a wad on the floor (trying to make me feel bad about my current wardrobe will not induce me to buy). And use lighting that makes our skin slightly pinkish and filtered (even guys look better this way). Better to have us return one or two things because in daylight we realize golden daffodil and seafoam are not our colors than have us walk out without your cute signature bag to lure other shoppers in.

Sigh. And don't even get me started on how hair salon mirrors make me look.

The Weight of The World

My thanks to the family, profiled in the local Sunday paper, willing to take their teenage daughter's fight against anorexia public.

Eating disorders are often the little gremlin on the family's wing, much like alcoholism and mental illness used to be (not that those are treated as openly as they should be, either). Our culture, the world's culture, is still so wrapped up in "never too rich or too thin" that anorexia usually goes too far before being noticed or treated. Two points the article didn't make, however, that should be: eating disorders affect more than teens and more than females; and an eating disorder is often a symptom of depression, not an isolated "disease."

I know. I've been there.

In my mid-thirties, seemingly settled into a successful marriage and a full-time college teaching position, I thought I felt pretty good about my future. We were living in a small, lakeside town and while my drive to the University took almost an hour, the commute was straight up a freeway and my department chair was very accommodating, scheduling my classes so I often didn't have to drive five days a week. My husband was a professor at the small town's local two year school and was seen as the funny, intelligent, and doting "perfect catch." By my latter thirties, much had changed--and much had stayed the same.

What changed was that my job, now nearing the ten year mark, became a slog when a new department chair--straight out of grad school--arrived questioning all the teaching methods I had developed over 15 years and saying my commute was my problem and he expected me there all day, every day, unless "the weather is draconian." (Wisconsin, mind you. Often draconian and I wasn't ending up in a ditch for this runt.) What stayed the same? My marriage--too much the same. We still got along like best pals but. . .only like pals.

As my chronic depression, long in abeyance, roiled up, I decided to "get healthy" as a response. Eat right; exercise more. Which then lead to eating less--and less--and exercising more--and more: no fats in the diet and no carbs either; a six mile run in the morning and a 12 mile walk later in the day. I felt in control--not of my job, of course, or my marriage, but in control of something. The more desperately my husband tried to make me eat, the more often I had colleagues tell me I was looking "quite thin," the more I thought, "yeah, and good, too. Just jealous, all of you, of my control." I was never sick, after all (only later did I learn that the immune system kicks into high gear when you lose too much fat, trying to keep the body alive), and for the first time ever I could cut my hair really short because I didn't have a double chin. In my driver's license photo, I looked like a concentration camp survivor.

But I also knew I wasn't able to think clearly or cleverly anymore. Getting through classes became so mentally tiring, I just had the students do group work, so I didn't have to put together a plan or read their papers. I had bursts of teary anger at the smallest things like not finding "my" parking space open. My already thin head of hair thinned more but I grew fine downy hair on my face and body (it's called "lanuga," another attempt at preservation, replacing fat with fur). What finally made me see how much trouble I was in? Maybe an attempt at intervention by two colleagues I greatly respected, although I assured them I was just a bit overworked; maybe sensing as I weighed myself for the fifth time in a day that 72 lbs. is too light even for someone 5'3"; maybe realizing that I was quite literally--in the correct sense--trying to disappear, growing smaller and smaller to take up less space in a world I felt had no room for me anymore. Suicide by diminution.

It doesn't matter. I found a psychiatrist, who first sent me to have an ECG to see whether I needed to be hospitalized. She called me lucky because my heart was fine but I was even more lucky that this therapist understood right away that what needed treatment was the depression--the anorexia was just an artifact, an obvious direction for control in a world that approves of and encourages sylphs and waifs. Up to the point where the world suddenly says "oh, now you've gone too far. Eat something." And sometimes up to the point the sylphs and waifs can no longer eat. And on to the point they die.

No one seeing me now would imagine I was almost at that point. Getting treatment for my depression started me back. From there, I left my job (and the profession I thought I would be in forever), took a lover (not everyone's idea of a good way to deal with a failing marriage but it worked for me), moved to a new town and got a divorce (in that order). And my lover became my husband and I found out he'd been watching me for a long time, attracted to me from the first he saw me, and later, when I was 72 lb. and walking all over town to burn off every carrot, he would turn to others and say "she didn't used to look like that. She used to look really good."

If you know a person--young or not, male or female--you say something similar about, maybe that person is also trying to disappear, given permission by "you can never be too rich or too thin." Yes, you can be. At least "too thin." If I'm ever rich, I'll get back to you on that.

A Julie Andrews Favorite Things Moment

First really Springy day of Spring. Perfect time for a nice, lazy list.
Lists are the "in" thing on blogs these days, nu? (That's Yiddish for "right?" or as Wisconsinites would say "Yah, hey?") So while I'm watching the sun wait for turn-down service--a chocolate sun-spot on its pillow, maybe--my mind is lazily turning over some of the clothes that I either love owning or wish I could afford to love owning. Spoiler Alert: Nowhere is there mention of a Little Black Dress.

1. Ralph Lauren when he isn't being horsy, as in the black cashmere sweater with the huge embroidered gold dragon on it that my husband bought me for Christmas/Chanukah one year.
2. My yellow woven Francesco Biasia handbag. Do I care it isn't real raffia? Do I care it cost more than I should spend on, well, on anything in a year? No. Because I only drag it out when the persistent, rotten, icy, snowy Wisconsin winter seems to have diddled with us for the last time, so it says WARM in double caps. Unfortunately, this year we got six inches of snow three days after I started carrying it. Damn Wisconsin.
3. Boots. Now this seems like a contradiction since I just cursed winter but, call me a little hypocrite if you will or simply too mad, but when it comes to clothing, winter wins hands down. I am never happier than when I can shimmy into a pair of tight, narrow jeans; a soft, figure-hiding--who me, muffin tops?--sweater; and a pair of high, funky boots. My favorites this year were faux-suede, buckled and very Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean by Naughty Monkey, possibly the best shoe brand-name out there.
4. And speaking of tight jeans, I swore, absolutely-force-me-to-drink-only-vodka swore, that I would never pay an obscene amount for a pair of jeans. Who in the entire universe would need to spend over a hundred dollars on a pair of jeans--they were invented, after all, for grubby, smelly miners. (Long pause.) I bought a pair of 7 For All Mankind. Love them. Hardly took them off all winter. Looked better than any pair I've ever owned. Crap.
5. Something designed by Christian Siriano. No, I don't own anything by him (and don't try to claim you don't remember who he is--if you really don't, well, that's what Google is for). I wrote him off as a bratty little twerp early in the fourth season of Project Runway and ended up concluding that he's a friggin' 20 year old genius. A co-design by him and Chris March would be even better.
And finally, no I'm not going for an even ten; I'm too lazy today even for that:
6. Quiet now. I live in Madison, WI. Land of the "I'm more PC than you." But I can't walk near the fur salon at Nordstrom in Chicago without going over to run my fingers over some lovely, soft, elegantly draped, outrageously priced--especially in this tawdry little recession--fur jacket. I could never get past the ethics--would always be sure my cats were eyeing me suspiciously and putting the Humane Society on speed dial. But it is beautiful and it does feel good. And just saying that makes me need to go do penance. Wait, I'm Jewish. I'll take care of it on Yom Kippur next year.

Get Thee Behind Me, Sephora

So much for the "Natural Look."

For years, I went without makeup. I'm not sure whether it started as a conscious choice to present the real me to the world or whether I was just lazy. I suspect the latter. I seem to remember some connection with no longer wearing high heels everywhere. And life was fine; I can't say I really missed the ritual of cosmetics, maybe even felt a bit purer than those who "wasted" the time in front of the mirror.

But Life Happens. Age Happens. And suddenly "natural" didn't sound--or look--as appealing as it once did. Even so, minimalism ruled and I could get out the door--from turning on the shower through feeding the cats--in 15 minutes, 20 if the litter box needed attention. And my stash of cosmetics took up just part of one drawer in my bathroom. I blame what happened next on Bare Escentuals.

Bare Escentuals, for those women out of the loop and hetero-men, was the first really popular line of "mineral makeup" and was sold originally through the cosmetic store giant, Sephora. BE's claim is that their makeup is so pure, it's actually good for your skin, so pure you "can sleep in it." Now, the birth date listed on my driver's license isn't yesterday's date last I looked, so I didn't fall for that come-on. What I fell for was the colors: little pots of gorgeous powder blush in shades from pale, glisteny pink to bronze-gold and eye shadows--oh my, I can't even begin to describe the number and variations of eye shadows. If there were a pantone number for each, they would put Sherwin Williams to shame. And cunningly, they didn't just sell them singly; they would bundle them into little collections with names like "Beach Babe Eyes" and "Girls' Night Out." Buying a set was like being able to have a perfectly coordinated Ralph Lauren outfit all at once, no fussing about what goes with what.

The inner artist in me--and believe me, that artist is buried pretty far down--was now all about the eyes. Would "Tiger Lily" work with "Midnight"? How would a shimmer of "Lavender Lace" look over "Granite Grey"? Dozens of BE pots of shadow later, I decided, based on advice by very savvy folk like Bobbi Brown and Paula Begoun (oh, go ahead, google them; you know you're dying to) that a woman of my "mature age," shouldn't wear shiny or frosted shadows. Gulp. All of BE's positively gleam. BUT--glory be to Isis--M.A.C., another overachieving cosmetic line, had not only dozens of frosted shades but dozens of matte shades as well. I felt like Picasso coming out of his Blue Period, Munch abandoning Impressionism, Andy Warhol--well, all the time. New creativity, age-appropriate creativity, and way more time getting dressed than ever. This was progress?

Truth? Yeah, it was. Now, makeup slut that I am, I wear matte and shiny shadows, depending on my mood and the season (Winter=Matte; Summer=Frosted--or vice versa), pencil and liquid liners with powder smudged on top and lots of Black Mascara. Do I look like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard? I might get disagreement (keep it to yourself. . .) but I think I'm lookin' OK for a 55 year old. And isn't that what we all should be looking for? In fact, I haven't browsed through my collection of Bare Escentuals for a long time--think I'll dig them out. Oh, and as far as Sephora goes? Yeah, I think I'll hit the web site and see what's new.

Shop This, Buddy!

All it takes is a little bitty recession and the "frugal smuggers"
come out of their almost-woodlike panelling. Yes, Wall Street Bankers and their million dollar bonuses are enraging but the price-slashing, don't-spend-a-cent, who-needs-real-toiletpaper-anyway army is annoying. And annoyance sometimes trumps anger.

One of the favorite topics for the frugalistas is cutting back on clothing expenditures by "shopping your closet." By wading in and paring out the wrong numbers while pairing up the snazzy ones you forgot you had, suddenly your world will be filled with adorable, wearable, perfect-fitting new outfits without you spending a dime of your dwindling funds. Have you ever seen the people suggesting this? I mean, other than maybe Tim Gunn, who you know doesn't have anything but perfect clothing in his closet anyway, most of the writers suggesting this look like they haven't changed their muu-muus or plaid flannel shirts since 1969.

I'm not saying everyone should buy a new wardrobe every season--ok, I would if I thought we could all afford it--and I'm not denying that "shopping your closet" sounds like a potentially Indiana Jones moment of treasure hunting. But more likely, breaking through the piles of shoes on the floor will leave you feeling more like Geraldo Rivera after he broke into Capone's secret hideaway: nothing will be there.

Now, I'll let you in on the grungy secret: What my closet looks like. Not so bad, you say? I mean, other than the pile of unsorted jeans and sweats on the upper shelf? The half-crushed boot box on the floor? Most things do appear to be on hangers, after all, and there's actually a semblance of a shoe organizer. Trouble is, this is my closet when it looks pretty much its best. And much of that seeming organization gets cast to the winds when you look at the top of my dresser. There you go. Just pile everything there and the closet looks better. So do I have to "shop my dresser top" too?

Let's face it, my closet just isn't a very sexy store to shop in. In my defense, most of what's on the dresser is waiting to be washed but I'm still not likely to run to my closet door, peep in, and go "ooh, look at that adorable striped shirt! Who knew I had such marvelous taste--guess I'll skip the trip to Macy's where I couldn't possibly find something more appealing." (I did go to Macy's; kept the purchase down to a belt and a severely reduced pair of Ralph Lauren jeans. Tragic.)

As fashionable as being frugal--i.e. a cheapskate--is right now, I'm afraid I'll still be happier and feel more confident and stylish when I'm wearing something new. Isn't Spring what "new" is all about? I won't toss out that pile of unworn jeans or shirts, of course. Because don't we always hold out the hope that the too-small jeans will fit some day or the leopard-trim tee will look just amazing after we work out three days a week and have buff biceps? I'll keep my closet and no doubt wear the duds in it, (coincidence that this word means both articles of clothing and things that don't work?) but "shop" it? Nope. "Shopping" means escalators, sales clerks to bring the size I really need, and an excuse to stop at "Auntie Anne's Pretzels" when my treasure has been bagged.

Short Blog Post 'cuz I'm Soooo Relaxed

I just got back from my first massage appointment.
This was another step in the "I'm going to prove to the world that I'm not getting older, I'm getting..." Nah, I won't go into that cliche'. More like, "at this rate, I won't be able to move by the time I'm 56." I was prepared for the massage therapist to tell me I felt a bit tight: not quite prepared for her to say, even before she put a hand on me, "Your shoulders are up around your ears, y'know. They aren't supposed to be there." Well, ok, so I'm a little stressed. Then she actually got to work.

The sounds of my joints, muscles, bones, and probably my blood vessels cracking and popping must have resonated out into the hallway. Every time she hit a new spot, she'd say "No, relax, don't tighten up." Finally realizing that telling me to relax wasn't going to help, she just forced me into fake "relaxed positions." Like the "smile" mantra. Supposedly if you walk around smiling when you're depressed, you will start to feel happy for real. I've only ever gotten sore cheek muscles.

"You really just don't ever shut down and let go, do you?"
"Why would I do that? Then things would fall apart around me even more."
"Breathe. . .no, breathe, count 1001, 1002--you aren't going to be able to get past 1003, are you?"
Not likely. I've never been able to breathe deeply; doctors always think I have miniature lungs. I understand all the benefits of relaxing and breathing deeply but, c'mon, who has time? Isn't that what cocktail hour is for? To work out all the stress kinks of the day? Oh. . .you're saying that de-kinking for one hour isn't the goal? Well, it's a mighty fine mini-goal.

When I was finished, though, I had to admit something was different. I won't say I felt like I could apply for a contortionist job, but my shoulders weren't up by my ears anymore. About all those toxins she said were going to be flushed out of my system? Sorry, folks, I'm going to need to see some scientific evidence on that one. Now, gin? That I believe flushes toxins. Just notice how often you go pee after a couple of martinis.

Well, gotta go--must be the massage.

Not All Skittles

I don't really know what that phrase means. but in its entirety it's "not all beer and skittles." And since beer and skittles--whatever--are the best things in life, you get my drift.

I'm sitting in a fabulous boutique hotel in Columbus, Ohio, called The Lofts which was built out of an old warehouse in the "flatiron" district bordering the "Short North" district. Which--if you're really serious about history--was originally the "Red Light" district. I'm sure you know what that means. But I'm not here to have a grand old holiday. No, I'm here to make sure I see my father one more time before he's gone: 92, almost 93, and nothing but a bag or rags and bones; yet, his brain--although it slips into an alternate reality now and then (he keeps thinking my brother is married--now that's a true alternate universe!)--keeps him hanging on.

Between sleeping and fighting for air, he'll suddenly wake into total lucidity, understanding every iota of what goes on around him. I don't know whether this is better or worse than my mother's state of blissful dementia before she died, but I have to respect a brain that is just so sharp, so savvy, so always together, that it won't let go.

And I sit across from my sister, my eternally young beautiful sister, seven years older than I am and thus into her sixties. But she always--always!--to me, looked as if she could never age. And for the first time, I look at her and think "she's showing signs of age." She's still 10 times more beautiful and still younger looking than I am--no one else but me would see a change--but I see it. I see actual lines on her face. I feel as I hug her "hello" the bones that tell me she's lost weight without meaning to. I notice how much more quickly she tires--but how didn't she tire before, when she was doing corporate attorney work and travelling most days of the week? Maybe I'm the one who's really showing my age for even noticing these changes. But they are there.

The father I depended on to be the brilliant savvy one as my mother slipped into dementia, the one who rescued and cared for her when others would have locked her away. The sister who was the "tall, beautiful" one, the one my parents tried to tell me I beat in brains--until she aced law school and showed my she had it all, the looks, the height, the brains, the artistic talent. And my brother, only three years older, but seeming so frail himself, struggling to make ends meet when with his musical and artistic talent, he should have outstripped me long ago.

Where does it go? Where does youth and talent and brains and looks go after a certain time? And why does it take us so long to realize how fast they are leaving us? And when do we start to mourn their passing? And when do we realize that mourning isn't even appropriate? How do we feel regret when we know we had it all at one time?

I Can See For Miles

I'm Short
Not "petite," which implies delicacy and a predilection for ruffles. Not "cute" (See "petite" but throw in dimples and curly hair). Not even "less than average height" which could mean I was 5'5" (isn't 5'6" about average for a woman?) No, I'm just short. Everything is proportioned pretty much the way it should be except for being a bit boyish from the waist down and overly girlish--if you get my drift; 'zaftig' as my grandmother would have put it--from the waist up but I'm short. And getting shorter. I used to be able to claim 5' 3 1/2". But they measured me at the doctor's office the other day and dang, if I'm not down to 5' 2 3/4". If I should make it to 102 like my other grandmother (the non-Yiddish speaking one), I figure I should be about 4' even.

Since being short is not exactly a new experience for me, I grew up wearing heels from age 11 on. This was partially driven by not wanting to be called "petite" or "cute," but having a sister who was 5' 11" no doubt was part of the mix. So I love heels. When I try to wear flats, even if they're the style of the season, I'm ill at ease, like I'm waiting to be stepped on all the time. Ballet flats were an adorable trend--but not for me. When I walk into a room, I want to make a statement and that statement is "I'm not really short; you must be exceptionally tall."

Sadly, I'm not really young anymore, either. So while there are scads of gorgeous heels out there in all models, colors, sizes, what have you, most of the really beautiful or gutsy or chic ones are 3" and up. I never fail to find some shoe in a Victoria's Secret Catalog that the primitive part of my cortex doesn't say "Want shoe. Need shoe. Must have." Then I look at the heel height--4", 4 1/4". Maybe when I was younger but now? When my balance is shot anyway? And I actually prefer not to be wincing in pain when I walk? I mean, talk about something that puts wrinkles on your face.

But try finding a really great shoe with a 2" or 2 1/2" heel--the height I've decided is about my optimum. Oh, there are shoes out there with that heel but they often come in exactly three shades of drab and usually have the words "Comfort" or "Support" or "Ortho-" in their names. You want to wear a brand with a cool name like "Naughty Monkey" (no, I did not make that up; those cute suede pirate boots I wore this winter?--that's the brand.) or "Chinese Laundry" and you're usually back to the 3" and up. So, Ladies of a Certain Age, how do we get shoe designers to realize that we, too, want to look like a celebrity or a model or even a bimbo sometimes but have this odd notion we should be able to walk while we're at it? Should we stage a Choo-in? Walk naked through the streets of New York's fashion district wearing nothing but Naturalizers? Boycott Nordstrom? (Just kidding--I couldn't stand the deprivation.)

Forget healthy, wealthy and wise--that's shot now, anyway. Give me heels.

Dear Liz Claiborne: You Go, Girl

I Paused. I Looked Twice. Was I reading Allure or Maxim?

There was Cindy Crawford, dressed in gladiatrix leather, subduing a loaf of peasant bread with her incisors, legs splayed, arms akimbo (possibly my favorite term for a body position). Yup, the cover reassured me, I was indeed reading Allure--a women's magazine focused usually on this season's "it" handbag; the cutest lip gloss; maybe an article on how to get your guy to treat you with more respect. Then I turned the page. . .And checked the title again. Because now I was looking at Cindy Crawford, one-time supermodel but now surely in the "mom" age range, similarly spread out, now naked and iced strategically--but not so strategically I couldn't see plenty--with whipped cream (OK, my guy friend says it was Cool Whip. I didn't linger on the page long enough to study texture closely.) The point of this photo shoot? Supposedly, to reassure all of us middle-aged women that this was "The New 43." If so, then Hera thank you for letting me be "The Old 55."

Clearly, women are still being told that it's unacceptable to simply age, that a sense of style and grace aren't enough, that we have to remain buff and tough and willing to show it all to survive the culture of youth.

Which brings me back to Liz Claiborne's current ad series. Yes, I know Liz herself is no longer around but the company still seems to be run by people who actually do have respect for women. The latest ads all show a number of people standing in some public setting--waiting for a bus; riding in an elevator--all wearing Liz Claiborne (admittedly, an amazing coincidence that everyone at the bus stop reached for the same designer that morning but, hey, a little suspension of disbelief here, people). And in each ad, there's a range of models. Always a lovely young woman or two, of course, and a guy who looks very metrosexual but also always a range of skin shades and body types and--what makes me smile most--age. In every ad, there's at least one "woman of a certain age" and that age isn't 43--or even 55, I'm guessing--and she's not a classic older model with shiny silver hair and great skin. No, the older woman wears her age on her face and in her body but she's still wearing the latest Claiborne fashions, wearing them in the same tasteful way all the other models in the ad are, not having to wear some token old lady version of them. In the elevator ad, the youngest model is dressed in pink with a flouncy skirt and brown clutch; the older model has on a great purple suit jacket with a clear trench over top and a big, statement-y tote bag. Both look beautifully stylish and like they are comfortable wearing clothes that express their ages and places in life.

None of us has to dress like Margaret Dumont if we feel more like Katherine Hepburn just because we're past 40. I still feel most comfortable in tight jeans and boots. And yes, I'm trying to work out a little so my triceps don't sway in the breeze this summer. But at a time when there are more middle- and older-aged people than young, why are we still getting the message that naked with whipped cream should be our goal.

Thanks, Liz. And shame on you, Allure. May you be forced to eat Cool Whip on your next sundae.

Ice, Ice, Baby

"Why ask for it straight up if you're gonna have me shake it?"
snarled (ok, he didn't snarl. He was about 5'5" and cute as a button with dimples the size of Oklahoma. I doubt he would snarl even at Rush Limbaugh) the bartender. And I empathize, I really do. Ice is both the boon and bane of mixed drinks.

Small amounts of water are really essential in smoothing the character of many alcoholic drinks and bringing out their topnotes and after-tones. Some of the peatier single malt Scotches, for instance, keep their peat in line better with a small splash of spring water.


And cocktails of most types incorporate water in one form or another. Now, unfortunately for all, sometimes this water comes mostly in the form of Mountain Dew or Diet Coke. The most appalling drink I ever heard ordered was Rhine Wine & Diet Coke. Yup, in the same glass.


But ice is usually the source of water and here's where we hit that bitter old debate: shaken or stirred. Professional bartenders are the most likely to hate having to shake drinks, especially drinks like Martinis or Manhattans, because they say shaking waters drinks down too much. Home drink makers then feel guilty every time they reach for their cute little vintage penguin shaker, feeling they are being such wusses. Stop feeling guilty, home mixers. You have one immense advantage over most bartenders and it makes all the difference:


Big, Chunky Ice Cubes


Bartenders are plagued by having to use the ice that comes out of commercial ice machines or is delivered by commercial ice companies. And this ice is almost always small--half moons, doughnut shaped, chipped. Diabolical little ices that mock the drink maker: "Hah, yes I'll chill your drink fast but I'll add lots and lots of water at the same time! Bwahaha!" I actually heard ice say that one time, but then let's keep in mind the Tom Waits' song, "The piano has been drinking." Big, honkin' cubes like you make yourself in an old-fashioned ice cube tray are tough and can take a beating without crying into your gin. You can shake them until your wee penguin is so cold, you can't hold on, yet release only the tiny amounts of water that help bring all the cocktail elements together.

So why do I insist that bartenders still shake, even though I never get a Martini out that's as good as I make at home? I suppose that this is the point where knowledge and empathy are replaced by sheer desire: I like my cocktails very, very, shall I add one more, very cold even at the cost of a little too much water. And I adore bartenders who, understanding this, shake like hell for short time rather than lazily wafting the shaker through the air practicing figure eights.

Make me a really cold Martini without complaining about how I want it made and I'll follow those dimples all the way to Oklahoma.

Cries And Vespers

Ever The Purist...

Sidebar, Judge.
I'm using "purist" in the sense that we did in the '60s when we talked about why we wouldn't use LSD. Not "natural" enough. Of course, that left enormous numbers of other mind-altering drugs--all so much more "natural"--that we could turn to. Rationalization is a lovely thing.

So, Ever the Purist...
When I became serious about drinking, which sounds worse than it is, and moved on from Sloe Gin Fizz and Kahlua & Cream to drinks that didn't taste like Shirley Temples or milkshakes, I became really "serious." For years, I wouldn't go beyond straight shots of Single Malt Scotch or Small-batch Bourbon. Then someone handed me a Martini. Wow, suddenly I was Dorothy Parker and Nora Charles and Craig Rice. I became a member of The Museum of the American Cocktail. Sophistication swirled around me and my cigarette smoke; bon mots flipped off my tongue as easily as I flipped off bad truckers; I even looked good in a cloche. Ok, except for the museum, that's all a lie. But, damn, if I didn't think it tasted just, well, really good.

Everything seemed so simple for a time. Gin, vermouth, ice, maybe an olive. Heaven in what is possibly the worst designed glass for drinking out of but the best for showing off. Then, cocktails became "trendy." And all you ever saw when you walked into a bar (sounds like the start of a joke) was a wall of Vodkas. Vodkas, of all things. And drinks with fruit and chocolate and brightly colored liquers all called some version of "Martini": Appletini, Razztini, Chocolatini. My bullshit meter went off and my purist button was pushed. Let me say this as loudly as the typewritten word will allow: I was not going to ever drink Vodka--especially in a Martini--so help me Dale DeGroff!

By now, you know what's coming. I found a drink I like Vodka in and it is, kinda, sorta, maybe, a Martini: James Bond's drink, The Vesper.

The Vesper is still a very simple drink. Arguments abound about proportions but if you want the basic gist and aren't worrying about exact ounces, go for:
2 Parts Gin
1 Part Vodka
1/2 Part Lillet Blanc

Shake (this is Bond, remember, "shaken, not stirred") over ice (big ice--that's for another blog entry), pour into a cocktail glass (a proper size cocktail glass, not a ten ounce monster--also the subject for another blog) and garnish with a lemon peel.

Lillet Blanc is a pale gold aperitif. Keep it chilled in your frig and you can sip it straight as well. A bottle will last you forever. Gins come in lots of odd permutations these days but don't be weird; stick with something nice and basic: Beefeater; Boodles; one of those "B" named brands (why do so many gin brands start with that letter?). I recommend against using Plymouth Gin for this drink--too soft and like Vodka to mix with it. And at that point, I'm stumped. After eschewing Vodka all these years, I really don't know the brands at all. I've been using Stoli but, hey, I've shown I'm capable of learning, if not new tricks, at least new drinks, so let me know. . .

2009's Most Unfortunate Fashion Flashback

The Jumpsuit
Remember these or has your brain's "horror filter" managed to purge this nightmarish fashion that, regardless of how bad everyone--EVERYONE--looks in it, reappears every 15 years or so. I remember my favorite jumpsuit (using the word "favorite" with the scariest of scare quotes) from the 70's when I was in college. I can only imagine now that I looked like a toddler garage mechanic in a onesie. Short-sleeves with a cuff; bell-bottoms, also with a cuff; and a belt that did absolutely nothing to create a waist--since I didn't have one to begin with. Oh, did I mention it was yellow? Now that was the way to blend in, wasn't it?

This year, the jumpsuits strutting down the runway try to make up for looking absurd by looking absurd. There have been billowy piles of parachute fabric, shiny armor-dried-on-high skin tight versions, and ones with large areas of cutouts. Now that makes sense. Let's design an article of clothing meant to cover you top to bottom and hack away large sections to show skin. Women aren't stupid: they show skin for men and that means cleavage and minis. When men see cutouts, they just wondered how you ripped your clothes. "Honey, did you fall down or somethin'?"

And none of this addresses the real downside of jumpsuits. How do you go to the bathroom? Maybe that's the beauty of the jumpsuit in the photo. At least with one exposed leg, she's got options (don't think too long about that). But imagine having to climb completely out of that after every cup of coffee. Do yourself a favor. If you want to look one-piece, just wear a shirt tucked in that matches your pants, skirt, whatever. And don't forget the cleavage.

Privileges of Age

If this blog were trendy & snarky, I'd just say "none." But I've vowed to avoid snark for at least my first three sentences, so...

First Privilege of Age: Bitching

55. While this used to be the age of doddering and slobbering, it's now very chic to hit your "double nickle," and even more than an AARP card will give you full access to a stage in life that can be most enjoyable--you can still wear tight jeans but you don't have to be as politically and socially correct. In other words--you can bitch. Not complain. Complaining is a whole different genre of irritation, one that is more irritating than entertaining which bitching should strive to be. Complaining encompasses foisting your current aches, pains, and sags--and there will be many--on anyone close enough to hear. Bitching has a less personal, more social cachet. You complain about arthritis; you bitch about how loudly the person next to you on the bus is text messaging. You complain about losing hair; you bitch about how boring Clairol's hair colors are. I mean, they can't do better than Medium Brown or Medium Golden Brown? How about Medium Brown with a hint of Caramel and undertones of Auburn? Would that be so hard?

Second Privilege of Age: Experimentation
See hair color comment above. When you're younger, you have to follow trends slavishly or risk being compared to Brittany Spears. When you're older, you can take a few more risks--you'll at worst be considered "eccentric" (at which time, adopt an English accent) and at best "cutting edge." In fact, the biggest mistake many women (men, too, but we'll deal with them cruelly in later posts) make is falling for the "dress your age" mantra. What does that mean? It can't mean dressing like a politician your age: how many of us really look good in yellow pantsuits (though if you do, go for it). And it certainly doesn't mean dressing like a celebrity your age unless you have someone who can follow you around and photoshop you continually. Really, what age should release you to do is "dress your mindset." Since most of us in our 40's, 50's, and 60's don't have cliques we have to fit in with, we can look as we want--but be prepared to be criticized for it, especially by me. Which leads to the...

Third Privilege of Age: Publishing Your Bitching and Experimentation
And that's what this blog will be about. Opinions of a 55, almost 56, year old highly opinionated but generally gracious--at least in public--woman who still wears her hair long, her jeans tight, and her heels high but is always on the lookout for clothes that are different, makeup that she wouldn't have tried at 16, skincare that will really get rid of those new wrinkles, and cocktail recipes that are real cocktails, not Appletinis. And since I have as my faithful sidekick a very young, very artistic, and equally opinionated gay guy, I'd say my credentials to opine just jumped fifty fold--maybe, 55 fold.