Category Archives: beauty

I’m Ready for My Close Up, Mr. El Paso

It’s all about the lighting.

Good lighting can make even the intolerable desirable. Take my lunch, for instance. Leftover burrito* with carrots and chips- monochromatic, tepid and mushy, should be disgusting. But scroll below** to see what two-o’clock afternoon sun in the northern hemisphere can do. See how the salsa glistens? Delicious, right? Can’t wait to dig in.

Yes, I’m going to parallel this to dating. It’s what I do.

Take that mediocre guy from accounting. As he walks down the alley of cubicles and turns the corner toward reception, you see him eclipse the morning sun as it streams through the window. In his silhouette, you see no pocket protector, no black smear where the pocket protector failed. You don’t see the worn, shiny ass of his Dockers, nor the bit of jelly on the back of his left hand. No, what you see is the dark shape of a man, sun glistening around his tall, narrow form, and your mind wanders…

Then there is that lackluster friend of your sister’s. And here he is, at the family picnic once again, another valiant effort by your sister to orchestrate a Certs encounter between the two of you. And this time, it might just work. The sun is setting, the men are wrapping up their game of touch football, and as your man draws back his arm in what will surely be another botched pass, the setting sun breaks through the clouds, and he is haloed by brilliant rays of gold, azure, and ruby red. Your mind wanders…

And, let’s jump in the time machine for a bit, back to those days of our youth. Was it not lighting, pure and simple, that drove us to make our decisions vis a vis romance? Prom, with its strobe light flashing; roller rink and its laser show; the dusky bar illuminated by nothing more than the neon glow of the Budweiser and Jose Curevo signs. Your mind wanders more than it already was wandering, what with the beer and tequila and all. Yes, it was lighting that made the good look better and the better look great. Never underestimate the lighting.

‘* Yes, I eat leftover burritos every Saturday. I have dinner at Tacqueria Pablano in Arlington every Thursday night, and leftovers are pre-planned frugality.

‘**I put the pictures at the bottom so you can read the good stuff without having to scroll down down down past dozens of glamor shots of food before you get to anything interesting. I hate when they do that.

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Filed under autobigraphy, beauty, body image, conflict, essay, food, humor, irony, memoir, sarcasm, single, Uncategorized, women

but she has a great personality and she makes her own clothes

We can’t all be pretty. Some of us have to count on our abilities and that something ‘inner’ to draw people to us. You know, those qualities your great aunt would be sure to point out as she introduces you to the most handsome man at your cousin’s wake.

If they’ve told you beauty is fleeting, then you are not one of the beautiful ones. They’re right though, a quick search on Facebook reveals that the beauty of the high school quarterbacks and prom queens has, indeed, fleeted.

It turns out that all those dreadful clichés about “pretty being as pretty does” are right. Take last night’s meal, for example. Not much to look at, but if my great aunt described it, you’d invite yourself right over for dinner and volunteer to do the dishes.

Baked salmon with garlic, steamed broccoli with orange zest and pomegranate molasses, fresh gnocchi dripping in butter.  A salad of cool, crisp romaine and plump blackberries sprinkled with piquant blue cheese… Tasty, right?  And so very good for you. But, just like at your first boy/girl party in grade school, when that bottle spun and landed on Steve Keller and his acne-riddled nose, you’ll need to close your eyes before you go for it.

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Bitches Be Crazy

2015-10-20 20.49.40This is what it looks like when you make chocolate chip cookies on the Georgie. It would be a waste of energy (Washington Gas) to heat up the whole oven for just two cookies, and it’s too much energy (oh, my aching back) to climb up to the shelf and get the toaster oven, so I made cookies on the Georgie.

I swear my friend J told me she did this before with good results. But that was in the late nineties, when we got all “holistic,” ate quinoa, went off our meds, and did things like make cookies on the Georgie. “Bitches be crazy” comes to mind.

Last night I shared my cookies and some stories I wrote with my neighbor. I turned my head to look out the window while he read, but I could see the reflection of his face in the glass. He smiled some. He shook his head some. More shaking than smiling. When he finished the last story, he tapped the papers together and looked at me. “Is this true?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “I change the names and sometimes add things here and there, but mostly it’s true.”

“No, I mean the way the women act. Don’t they have any self-esteem? They keep chasing after guys, well, pretty much the same guy – the one who is the least interested in them. They’re totally disconnected from reality. In every single one of these stories they have a chance to learn something, to change, but they don’t. They just blow it all off with some crap about true love and keep right on making themselves miserable. What the hell?”

I folded my hands in my lap, lifted my chin, and took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said. “It’s the curse of being a romantic.” My neighbor groaned. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” he said.

“Let’s say you’re right,” I replied. “Let’s say there is no such thing as true love. Can’t you pursue it anyway? There are plenty of people looking for the Loch Ness monster, Atlantis, buried Aztec treasure. What if dating is your hobby? What does it hurt if you keep playing the game? When the game involves phone calls, and dresses, and dinners and heartache? It’s exhilarating. It feels. It’s fun.”

“Did you say fun?” my neighbor asked.

“Yes, and entertaining, too. How else could Harlequin and Hollywood stay in business? Women love this stuff.”

“Women. Well that explains it. Bitches be crazy.”

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arachnid facial infestation

A spider has laid eggs in the side of my face.
The turgid mass has grown so large that surely, at any moment, it will burst and spew forth dozens of arachnid progeny. I am certain of this.

The lump is definitely not a massive zit that I have manhandled to the point where the resultant purple and yellow bruise is scaring small children.

No. A spider has laid eggs in the side of my face. I am certain of this.

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Spa Day

pedicure

Angry asian rat

Gnashing teeth

Attacks my tender nubs

Razor edge

Snapping jaw

Sandpaper

Until all’s that left are stubs

facial

Wrap me in a warm rag

My face feels like a teabag

Moist happy mummy

massage

Let’s not talk

We only have an hour

Push pull moan groan

Pressure points

You knew I’d like the lemongrass

But c’mon, now,

We both know it’s not loveall is well

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Mr Bubble, Boiled

“Why don’t you go home and relax. Take a nice, hot bath?”

“Yeah, no, I can’t take baths.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I can’t take baths. Fifteen years ago I did, I stuffed my hair up in a shower cap, got the Mr. Bubble going, slid in there with a paperback novel… I like the water really hot, you know? Hot. So, after a little while my glasses were streamed up and I was sweating like a pig and the book was getting all soggy so I got out. I put the book on the vanity, pulled off the shower cap and was toweling off when I must have passed out or something – when I woke up I was on the floor and I was all red and puffy.”

“That sounds awful!”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure I poached myself.”jenny fish

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