Disney Morals

I just took my four year-old to see Beauty and the Beast in the movie theater and now I feel I must atone for that but posting this captioned image which has been circulating like mad on Facebook. I particularly enjoy the Beauty one because that story is the one I've been able to spin so that there's a decent morale to it -- its what's on the INSIDE that counts -- except that, yes, this caption is right, it only applies to men. And anyway, your toad will probably turn into a prince in the end anyway, so really you only have to tolerate his freakish appearance for a limited period of time.

My daughter is giving me body-image problems

Walking to have dinner with another family the other night, Seconda cast me a glance and then gasped.

“Why do your eyes look beautiful Mommy?”

“Well, I put on some eye makeup today.”

“Oh they look SOOOOOO beautiful!”

“Thank you.”

“But what if a bad guy comes and forces you to take your eye makeup off and you look HORRIBLE?? Do you want me to stab him in the heart?”

“Umm, I guess so. Thanks/”

“No problem.”

And to think I tell her "You look beautiful just the way you are." Clearly, she does not feel the same about me.

Fix Your Face

I was kneeling on the kids’ bedroom floor, shelving picture books when Seconda ambled in and said : “Mommy can you make your face beautiful?”

To which I replied, “Is my face not beautiful now?

“No, it’s not,” she informed me, in a matter-of-fact way, “Can you make it beautiful?”

The smart-ass teenager within me wanted to answer, “I don’t know, CAN I?’ but I suppressed her.

“Do you mean that you want me to put makeup on?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

All this time, every time I sit down to put on makeup or blow dry my hair (which doesn’t happen that often, lets face it) I’ve worried that I would be giving Sec a complex, making her think that we women needed to perform these grooming rites in order to feel beautiful. I have taken PAINS to demonstrate to her that though I enjoy fashion and makeup and grooming, it’s not necessary, that its something fun I do, but that we’re great just the way we are.

As it turns out, I should have worried that she’d give me a complex.

I kind of felt like Sec was one of those overbearing husbands who tell their wives, “You look nice when you put some effort in.” My husband could not be farther from that kind of man. He will tell me I look pretty when I’m wearing a pilly long underwear shirt from the 80s, sweatpants that are 5 inches too long and my dirty, crooked glasses, with a scrunchie in my hair. This is one of the things I treasure about him. It’s hard enough to muster self confidence without your life partner kicking you when you’re down.

So I have no idea where my daughter gets this stuff from. I blame Disney of course, and my mother, as any self-respecting modern woman would, and then I don't know who to blame.

But I will tell you this much: don’t be surprised if you see me around town with mascara-ed eyes and a bit of rouge on the cheekbone. Don’t wonder why I’m wearing earrings and my hair looks brushed. My kid gave me a complex.

If I had a windfall of wishes

Do you ever catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and realize you are having a day where you look effortlessly good? I am not talking about a day where you spend an hour trying to look effortlessly good but one where it just, magically, happens, where the way that you hastily stick a bobby pin in your hair while madly scrubbing piss out of the carpet is the very best way you could possibly have inserted that bobby pin? It happens every once in a blue moon and yesterday was one of those times.

And after I realized I was having an effortlessly-good-looking episode, I then thought, how great would it be to ALWAYS look effortlessly good? (Yes, I am never content with anything I have).It occurred to me that if I had a bunch of wishes – not just three but a whole windfall of them, over five for sure, that I would probably wish to look amazing without the aid of lipstick or Great Lash. First, world peace. Second, long health and happiness for my family. Third, health reform. And then the effortlessly hot wish. At least I have my priorities straight.

Who knew this was an S & M hair salon?

In honor of my birthday last week I decided to dedicate a little time to beauty. Nothing crazy, just what I’d call light grooming -- a mani/pedi and half a head of highlights.

When you’ve had two kids and have forfeited the joys of heavy drinking, smoking, drug use and casual sex, well, there’s not to many ways to get your kicks anymore. The occasional piece of chocolate cake or double espresso, maybe a Claritin D once in a while – and every so often, getting your hair washed at the salon. There’s nothing like getting your hair washed in a special sink devised to insure your comfort. Luxury! Relaxation! I, for one, think its absolutely sublime to have someone wash my hair, and that’s what I remind my kids of this whenever I’m shampooing them and they’re whining and crying and batting my hand away.

But on this particular occasion at the salon, I was in for a little surprise because I was assigned to a Rose, the Rough Hair-Handler. Rose greeted me at the front desk and introduced herself as colorist’s assistant (now is the part in the story where you find out that I get my hair done at a fancy salon that I can not afford, where everyone employed has an assistant. Even the coat check girl has an assistant and if that isn’t a one-person job, I don’t know what it.) As colorist’s assistant, Rose is expected to do things like fetch the clients green tea and magazines, hand the colorist foils, and set the timer which keeps track of how long the peroxide has been in my hair. But the most important responsibility, by far, is the washing of the processed hair.

By the looks of her, Rose would be a gentle and careful hair-washer, the kind that gave you an extra-long cranial massage and made absolutely sure the water temperature was just right. She had long, wavy brown hair, a round face and freckles – in other words, the kind of sweet, homespun girl who belonged on a prairie somewhere, not in the rat race.

Oh, but how misled I was. Because the hair-washing Rose gave me was as close to S and M as I’ve yet to get. First the scalding, steaming water on the scalp. And I don’t like to make trouble, see, so I tried to withstand the heat but finally I had to ask, meekly, if she couldn’t make it a little colder. Then I was treated to an ice-bath, and after that I didn’t dare complain.

But the water temperature was the least of it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was the Yeti washing my hair. The girl had hands like a lumberjack. She yanking my hair and flung strands of it to and fro, rubbing and scrubbing like she was a crazy evangelical and I was a sinner she had to purify. Then she doused my entire upper face with the nozzle of water. Thankfully, she kept the water above my nose or I could have made a case it was

borderline water torture.

And that was BEFORE the mandated fancy-salon cranial massage.

When I sat up, my mascara was running, and my neck, shoulders and ears were absolutely coated in conditioner.

“Oooooh the color looks great!” she exclaimed with a smile as sweet as anything,” Do you want a blow out?”

“NO!” I cried.

God knows what the girl could do with a blow drier.

A Mother's Day Cry for Help

A day to honor me, Mommy Dearest, is nice and all but it really isn’t nearly enough to get the job done so I decided to extend the run of Mother’s Day to the whole weekend.

“You take whatever time you need,” David offered magnanimously. That was Friday morning.

On Saturday afternoon, while I sat in the chair of Arrojo studio, waiting for my highlights to soak into my hair and reading People, it was a different story.

“So what’s going on?” David asked on the phone, none too kindly, “When should we expect you back?”

In the background, Primo screamed that something was “ALL YOUR FAULT DADDY!” Seconda wailed her interminable wail.

“Well, I have a haircut after this and then I was going to do a little shopping,” I said, “But if you need me ---“

”No, forget it, we don’t need you,” said David curtly, “SECONDA DO NOT PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!”

Then the phone went dead.

My first reaction was rage at David for hanging up on me. My second response was fear for the life of my two young children under his care.

Rather than opt for either of these, I decided to laugh. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho! Because I was free!! And all the shit hitting the fan on the other end of the phone was totally not my problem.

I let out a hearty chuckle and got back to the important business of reading why Kirstie Alley has recently gained 83 pounds.

With a golden head of bouncy hair, I sashayed down 7th Avenue, feeling like a hot number. Popped into Loehmann's -- why not? -- and spent a whole hour happily shopping for clothes. But here’s where things took a turn.

I feel I need to get into this issue now, because, hey, I am not one to shy away from the tough questions, I am an unflinching investigator of the human condition. So let’s roll up our selves and dig in.

I can not stop shopping in the Juniors section.

Help me, please. Because I don’t want to be the grandma with single-processed platinum hair and boobs flapping around near her belly button pulling Necessary Objects shrugs off the rack to bring into a communal dressing room. And I think that’s right where I’m headed.

Here's how I know. When I got home and showed David the loot, I realized that every single item of clothing, all from the Juniors section, all peasant-y, patchwork, embroidered summer items, every single piece was totally and I do mean utterly see-through.

Now I have nothing against diaphanous apparel. Was a time I was the QUEEN of see-through clothing. Between the ages of about 15 and 30, I didn’t mind showing a little too much skin, because well, all the skin covered was muscle, bone and appropriately-placed deposits of fat that evolution put there for a reason. This was the chapter in my life, and I’ll be honest here, where I used clothing to adorn, entice and advertise my goods.

Two children later, the purpose of clothing for me has changed. I now choose clothing based on how well the piece of apparel deceives people into believing that I am less -- how can I put it -- robust than I really am. And see-through clothing is not helpful in that endeavor.

What we’re talking about here is aging gracefully. Aging gracefully means knowing when to stop wearing denim miniskirts, unless you are a celebrity. Aging gracefully means trying clothes on in a private dressing room, with a door, so the only person who has to see you squeeze your ample ass into one-size-too-small Capri pants is you. Aging gracefully means when you are pushing a stroller containing two bratty kids who are prone to attracting not-very-positive attention to you, that you should be wearing clothes that have no possibility of showing your cotton panties underneath.

I am failing at aging gracefully.

But I did have a lovely mother’s day weekend, complete with breakfast in bed, chocolate madelines and a gift of fine jewelry crafted by the hot new designer, Primo himself. The upside of my shopping misstep is that I now have an excuse to go back to Loehmann’s in less than fourteen days, to return see-through clothing. Anyone brave enough to join me and make sure I steer clear of Juniors?