As I take a deep breath, my heart slows to a normal pace. The Transformation has begun. My body is returning to its BC (Before Children) days. Well, it better be, anyway.
I walk the three blocks home from my martial arts studio. My triceps burn from punching the bag, my quads quiver from endless roundhouse kicks. And most importantly, my abs look like God meant them to--like the statue of David. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what they look like. I'll check them out when I get home.
I throw my boxing gloves on the couch. Now I know how Mike Tyson feels after a workout, spent, but worthy. I've been sticking to this exercise regiment for, oh . . . I don't know how long. A while.
I peel off my skin-tight lycra pants and t-shirt. I position myself in front of the full-length mirror. The heck with Victoria Secret models. I'm envisioning the abs of real atheletes, those who pose for Muscle and Fitness magazine. This is the realm I've entered now that I've been working out for . . . a while.
My chest expands as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I look in the mirror. WOW! Not only is my reflection unexpected, I think it might be physically impossible!
I look at my calendar. I have been working out for, let's see. One, two, three. Three and one-half weeks. I go faithfully twice a week, well, at least once a week. Forty-five minutes of non-stop kicking, punching, jumping rope, jogging, and medicine ball crunches. Twenty-five crunches per sessions. If I only go once a week, (though I do try to attend twice a week, honestly), that would be 25 x 3.5 = 87.5. I have accomplished almost 100 crunches in the past month and this is the results. My stomach is emulating the medicine ball, not benefitting from it!
Along with the workouts, I've been doing this "envisioning" crap for two years. Isn't that what "The Secret" is about? Envision hard enough and it will be yours. Megan Fox's abdominals have flitted through my dreams, as well as Mia Hamm's and Lindsay Vonn's. My 11-year old son assures me they all have decent abs.
I rip open my underwear drawer and grab my Spanx (modern-day girdle). I lie on my bed to wrestle myself into it. My Spanx gives me coverage from rib cage to mid-thigh. Nothing bulges out of this thing, other than the pain reflected in my eyes because I can't breathe. I've got to come up with a new ab attack. I grab pen and paper to brainstorm, chips and salsa to sooth the disappointment and settle onto the sofa to draft my new game plan!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Valentine's Day Letter
There is so much hoopla around Christmas and New Year's Eve! What about Arbor Day or Canada Day? What about Valentine's Day? Box of chocolates, a few flowers, and wham bam, it's over!
I think it deserves more attention, so welcome to my inaugural Valentine's Day Letter. This is in lieu of my Christmas message that has pretty much become a painful cliche year after year. This will be so sweet and sugary that you'll decline that box of chocolates and give it to the doorman you gypped at Christmas time.
Dear family, friends, loved ones, strangers, and others,
What can I say? My family and I are doing incredibly well. By the sounds of your last Christmas cards, we're doing a lot better than you all. I know how to read between the lines. "My daughter earned a volleyball scholarship to Atwood Community College 20 miles from home." Code for she practically flunked out of high school and this is the best she could do.
"My spouse and I are getting to spend a lot more time together and recalling why we fell in love." Uh oh. Someone has lost their job, they're doing overtime on the sofa, and discovering new places to scratch!
Well, for my family, it's like a cluster of love surrounds us wherever we go.
"Wind Beneath My Wing" flys out of the radio when we turn it on.
My husband and I frequent our local wine bar, Wine and Roses, and are greeted by "You Light Up My Life!" as we walk hand in hand to our table.
Look up "Romance" in Webster's. It states: Eric and Tammy serenaded by Debbie Boone. Honestly! My heart lunges a beat when I think of Debbie. Then Pat, her dad, slithers into my thoughts. Pat and those blinding white trademark shoes. I wonder if he was buried in them. I suppose I could Google that. I wonder if he's dead. I guess I should Google that first.
Let's return to Romance. There are so many great role models in our history other than Debbie & Pat.
Tracy & Hepburn--Well . . . shame he never divorced his wife though.
Bonnie & Clyde--Dead bodies put a little kibosh on the romance thing.
Di & Chuck--Oh, if only the fairy tale could have been true.
Chuck & Camilla--I just read about them in the Inquirer. Scratch them.
Mr. Ed & Wilbur--Boardering on that NC rating here, possibly.
Lassie & Timmy--More innocent than romantic love, I hope.
Professor & Ginger & Mary Ann--Oops, we want romance not soft porn.
Rhett & Scarlet--the perfect couple, with the exception of the physical and emotional abuse.
I'm starting to understand why the divorce rate is 50%.
Let me share my favorite love poem from my childhood.
Love is like a lizzard,
It gets inside my body
and wraps itself around my gizzard.
My loving and caring son has started MMA (mixed martial arts) classes. So needless to say, watch out Arnold, Jean Claude Van Damme, and you Gracie boys from Brazil. In ten years, my son will be able to crush your ribs like Marsha Brady crushes hearts. (Just trying to stay in the Valentine spirit.)
My manipulative, yet sweet, daughter enjoys gymnastics, science, and the TV show "Wizards of Waverly Place." I envision her concocting potions and spells so she can effortlessly perform a front tuck half twist ariel back bend split while bewitching Taylor Lautner, a young buff actor.
My wonderful husband showers me with so many compliments and kisses. At times, I feel like I'm on Noah's Ark!
May life be one big heart-shaped tub with magical bubbles floating on the surface and mirrors on the ceiling!
From my family to yours!
Happy Valentine's Day!
I think it deserves more attention, so welcome to my inaugural Valentine's Day Letter. This is in lieu of my Christmas message that has pretty much become a painful cliche year after year. This will be so sweet and sugary that you'll decline that box of chocolates and give it to the doorman you gypped at Christmas time.
Dear family, friends, loved ones, strangers, and others,
What can I say? My family and I are doing incredibly well. By the sounds of your last Christmas cards, we're doing a lot better than you all. I know how to read between the lines. "My daughter earned a volleyball scholarship to Atwood Community College 20 miles from home." Code for she practically flunked out of high school and this is the best she could do.
"My spouse and I are getting to spend a lot more time together and recalling why we fell in love." Uh oh. Someone has lost their job, they're doing overtime on the sofa, and discovering new places to scratch!
Well, for my family, it's like a cluster of love surrounds us wherever we go.
"Wind Beneath My Wing" flys out of the radio when we turn it on.
My husband and I frequent our local wine bar, Wine and Roses, and are greeted by "You Light Up My Life!" as we walk hand in hand to our table.
Look up "Romance" in Webster's. It states: Eric and Tammy serenaded by Debbie Boone. Honestly! My heart lunges a beat when I think of Debbie. Then Pat, her dad, slithers into my thoughts. Pat and those blinding white trademark shoes. I wonder if he was buried in them. I suppose I could Google that. I wonder if he's dead. I guess I should Google that first.
Let's return to Romance. There are so many great role models in our history other than Debbie & Pat.
Tracy & Hepburn--Well . . . shame he never divorced his wife though.
Bonnie & Clyde--Dead bodies put a little kibosh on the romance thing.
Di & Chuck--Oh, if only the fairy tale could have been true.
Chuck & Camilla--I just read about them in the Inquirer. Scratch them.
Mr. Ed & Wilbur--Boardering on that NC rating here, possibly.
Lassie & Timmy--More innocent than romantic love, I hope.
Professor & Ginger & Mary Ann--Oops, we want romance not soft porn.
Rhett & Scarlet--the perfect couple, with the exception of the physical and emotional abuse.
I'm starting to understand why the divorce rate is 50%.
Let me share my favorite love poem from my childhood.
Love is like a lizzard,
It gets inside my body
and wraps itself around my gizzard.
It's a little gross, but touching nevertheless!
Didn't mean to digress from my original intention. Back to my VD Letter and my family.
My loving and caring son has started MMA (mixed martial arts) classes. So needless to say, watch out Arnold, Jean Claude Van Damme, and you Gracie boys from Brazil. In ten years, my son will be able to crush your ribs like Marsha Brady crushes hearts. (Just trying to stay in the Valentine spirit.)
My manipulative, yet sweet, daughter enjoys gymnastics, science, and the TV show "Wizards of Waverly Place." I envision her concocting potions and spells so she can effortlessly perform a front tuck half twist ariel back bend split while bewitching Taylor Lautner, a young buff actor.
My wonderful husband showers me with so many compliments and kisses. At times, I feel like I'm on Noah's Ark!
May life be one big heart-shaped tub with magical bubbles floating on the surface and mirrors on the ceiling!
From my family to yours!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
nyc parking
I am so needlessly, senselessly proud of myself. When I walk out of my apartment building, my car is 20 feet from the front door. Do you know how few New Yorkers can say that? We all know most people aren't foolish enough to have a car in the city. That's not the point here. The point here is my Spot. If it weren't 29 degrees and snowing, I would sit on my front stoop and gaze at my perfect Parking Spot. I didn't do anything to earn this Spot. I just drove by at the right time.
On second thought, maybe I do deserve this Spot. You know, the whole Karma thing. Chances are in the last couple of years I've done something good. I remember standing in the express line at Zabar's with 18 items (limit is 10) and allowing someone with two items to cut in front of me. She had to cast several nasty looks my way first, but nevertheless, I let her in. I always allow people in the elevator before me (in case it plummets to the basement.) It's perceived as a good deed, regardless of intent. Clearly, I deserve this Parking Spot and I suspect I'll be getting it a lot more in the future if all is right with the universe!
This Parking Spot even gave me an opportunity to teach my son a life lesson. Yesterday, when he and I walked out the door for school, he skips straight to the car. "This is awesome, Mom!" he says, as he pointlessly pulls on the door handle. I stand back and agree, thinking about all that Karma I've sent out.
"I know, can you believe it?" I hand him my cell phone. "Take a picture of me with My Parking Spot. Then let's get to the subway."
"Mom, are you loco? The car is right here! It's snowing so much I can barely see you."
"If you think I'm losing this Parking Spot to take you 30 blocks to school, you're the one who's insane. This Spot is good for 26 more hours. This Spot represents Utopia to me. Do you understand this? I mean, Utopia, with a capitol U." My hands take on a life of their own, as they rise to the heavens. "Do you know the last time I got this Parking Spot? Before you were born! Are you walking away from me? Are you running away from me?"
Perhaps my voice did escalate an octave or two while I was spewing and gazing at My Spot. "I see you've decided the subway is the best route after all," I yell, as he's half way down the block from me and My Spot.
His life lesson that day was public transportation isn't so bad.
Having a car in NYC is crazy and stupid. Yeah, and maybe it drives the owner to act crazy and stupid too. But it's a choice I embrace.
My kids have their PSP's and DSI's. Well, I have a game too. It's TPG (The Parking Game.) It starts when I'm in my car. I gaze down the street. Both sides are solid with parked cars. I'm focused. No radio or cell phone to distract me. I AM Lee Majors and Inspector Clouseau fused into one. My bionic eye scans the people on the sidewalk. Clues are everywhere IF one knows how to see them. Does that pedestrian have an have overnight bag slung over his shoulder? Is he jingling keys in his pocket (or playing with something else)? Is that woman shouting into her cell phone, "I'm going to the Hamptons if I can find my gawd damn car. Do you remember where I parked it??"
Once I spot my victim (I mean person with car keys), I slow down and stalk him like a lion in the Serengeti. I can smell my success. My victim picks up his pace. He jerks his head around and peers down the street. He's nervous about something. He pulls his keys from his pocket, jumps into his car, reves the engine. I turn on my blinker as an indicator to other drivers behind me, "I got this spot. Keep mov'in!" The nervous driver gives me a big wave and smile as he guns his car out of the space. I line my car up to pull in. I get half way into the spot when I see it. A Fire Hydrant! That Dirtbag was parked at a fire hydrant. No wonder he was in such a hurry to leave. He was worried about getting a ticket.
As I pull out, another driver is waiting for my spot, unaware of the futility of it. I give her a big wave and smile as I peel out!
Such is life in NYC!
On second thought, maybe I do deserve this Spot. You know, the whole Karma thing. Chances are in the last couple of years I've done something good. I remember standing in the express line at Zabar's with 18 items (limit is 10) and allowing someone with two items to cut in front of me. She had to cast several nasty looks my way first, but nevertheless, I let her in. I always allow people in the elevator before me (in case it plummets to the basement.) It's perceived as a good deed, regardless of intent. Clearly, I deserve this Parking Spot and I suspect I'll be getting it a lot more in the future if all is right with the universe!
This Parking Spot even gave me an opportunity to teach my son a life lesson. Yesterday, when he and I walked out the door for school, he skips straight to the car. "This is awesome, Mom!" he says, as he pointlessly pulls on the door handle. I stand back and agree, thinking about all that Karma I've sent out.
"I know, can you believe it?" I hand him my cell phone. "Take a picture of me with My Parking Spot. Then let's get to the subway."
"Mom, are you loco? The car is right here! It's snowing so much I can barely see you."
"If you think I'm losing this Parking Spot to take you 30 blocks to school, you're the one who's insane. This Spot is good for 26 more hours. This Spot represents Utopia to me. Do you understand this? I mean, Utopia, with a capitol U." My hands take on a life of their own, as they rise to the heavens. "Do you know the last time I got this Parking Spot? Before you were born! Are you walking away from me? Are you running away from me?"
Perhaps my voice did escalate an octave or two while I was spewing and gazing at My Spot. "I see you've decided the subway is the best route after all," I yell, as he's half way down the block from me and My Spot.
His life lesson that day was public transportation isn't so bad.
Having a car in NYC is crazy and stupid. Yeah, and maybe it drives the owner to act crazy and stupid too. But it's a choice I embrace.
My kids have their PSP's and DSI's. Well, I have a game too. It's TPG (The Parking Game.) It starts when I'm in my car. I gaze down the street. Both sides are solid with parked cars. I'm focused. No radio or cell phone to distract me. I AM Lee Majors and Inspector Clouseau fused into one. My bionic eye scans the people on the sidewalk. Clues are everywhere IF one knows how to see them. Does that pedestrian have an have overnight bag slung over his shoulder? Is he jingling keys in his pocket (or playing with something else)? Is that woman shouting into her cell phone, "I'm going to the Hamptons if I can find my gawd damn car. Do you remember where I parked it??"
Once I spot my victim (I mean person with car keys), I slow down and stalk him like a lion in the Serengeti. I can smell my success. My victim picks up his pace. He jerks his head around and peers down the street. He's nervous about something. He pulls his keys from his pocket, jumps into his car, reves the engine. I turn on my blinker as an indicator to other drivers behind me, "I got this spot. Keep mov'in!" The nervous driver gives me a big wave and smile as he guns his car out of the space. I line my car up to pull in. I get half way into the spot when I see it. A Fire Hydrant! That Dirtbag was parked at a fire hydrant. No wonder he was in such a hurry to leave. He was worried about getting a ticket.
As I pull out, another driver is waiting for my spot, unaware of the futility of it. I give her a big wave and smile as I peel out!
Such is life in NYC!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Twilight Saga
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
OMG! I've been told some romantic, corny things in my life, but this quote is untouchable. Let's get this clear. These touching words were not directed toward me. They were written to Bella from her vampire lover in the novel "Eclipse."
Some of you may be familiar with The Twilight Saga books: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. Perhaps some of you are still ignorant of the vampire movement that is overtaking Barnes and Noble book shelves, the ressurection of vampires at the movies, and the Undead that are populating our television screens. Perhaps you're sleeping in a coffin, too!
Now, back to that quote!
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
Is there any female alive, regardless of age, who can read those words and not actually swoon? I'm sorry to use that word, but it is sooooo appropriate that nothing else will do.
You want to know what this is really about?
Teen-age angst.
The Twlight Saga series is about vampires, werewolves, and a quick trip to Italy. But the bottom line is: Boy meets Girl. They can't live with each other. They can't live without each other. Then all kinds of drama ensues. For the typical teen-age girl, who is in and out of love every other month, the books read like her diary. The main difference being the boyfriend in the series is a vampire and is sooo better-looking than any human can ever be. Oh yes, and he writes heart-stopping prose.
Look after my heart--I left it with you.
WOW!!
For us women who graduated from high school in the 20th century, reading these books is a trip down memory lane to age 16, when teen-age angst is at the boiling point. This age group has the market on raw and hysterical emotion. Every now and then, as an adult, it's fun to revisit. The angst meter hits "HOT" every other chapter in all the books.
I'm going to tell you what Bella, the main character, did after she read these pain-stakingly scripted words that were left on her pillow.
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
She went to see what her werewolf boyfriend was doing across town. Hey, her vampire flew away, so what the heck!
You can't get anymore teen-age than that!
Been there, done that. Glad it's in the last century.
Ever since I was 10 years old, I've had a predilection for vampires and werewolves. How bloody happy am I that the Undead are rising again!! Thank you Stephenie Meyer, the creator of the Twilight Saga!
And I truly do apologize for my puns, but they are a necessary evil!!
OMG! I've been told some romantic, corny things in my life, but this quote is untouchable. Let's get this clear. These touching words were not directed toward me. They were written to Bella from her vampire lover in the novel "Eclipse."
Some of you may be familiar with The Twilight Saga books: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. Perhaps some of you are still ignorant of the vampire movement that is overtaking Barnes and Noble book shelves, the ressurection of vampires at the movies, and the Undead that are populating our television screens. Perhaps you're sleeping in a coffin, too!
Now, back to that quote!
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
Is there any female alive, regardless of age, who can read those words and not actually swoon? I'm sorry to use that word, but it is sooooo appropriate that nothing else will do.
You want to know what this is really about?
Teen-age angst.
The Twlight Saga series is about vampires, werewolves, and a quick trip to Italy. But the bottom line is: Boy meets Girl. They can't live with each other. They can't live without each other. Then all kinds of drama ensues. For the typical teen-age girl, who is in and out of love every other month, the books read like her diary. The main difference being the boyfriend in the series is a vampire and is sooo better-looking than any human can ever be. Oh yes, and he writes heart-stopping prose.
Look after my heart--I left it with you.
WOW!!
For us women who graduated from high school in the 20th century, reading these books is a trip down memory lane to age 16, when teen-age angst is at the boiling point. This age group has the market on raw and hysterical emotion. Every now and then, as an adult, it's fun to revisit. The angst meter hits "HOT" every other chapter in all the books.
I'm going to tell you what Bella, the main character, did after she read these pain-stakingly scripted words that were left on her pillow.
Look after my heart--I've left it with you.
She went to see what her werewolf boyfriend was doing across town. Hey, her vampire flew away, so what the heck!
You can't get anymore teen-age than that!
Been there, done that. Glad it's in the last century.
Ever since I was 10 years old, I've had a predilection for vampires and werewolves. How bloody happy am I that the Undead are rising again!! Thank you Stephenie Meyer, the creator of the Twilight Saga!
And I truly do apologize for my puns, but they are a necessary evil!!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
WAXING!
9:15 a.m. Body weight 126 pounds.
9:49 a.m. Body weight 121 pounds.
How did I do it?
Wax! Steaming, simmering liquid doused onto my underarm, bikini, and leg area in descending order of pain. Pain-induced sweat accounts for two lost pounds. The remaining three pounds were the locks of hair being ripped from my calves, pits, and groin. Yes, it was a lot of hair. Shaving and waxing are not high on my "to do" list . . ever. OUCH-EEE-MAMA! We women are insane. Okay, let me make it more personal. I'm crazy!
It's tough to decide what is more ridiculous. Paying a professional to lay strips of cloth on my wax-covered skin, and then R-R-I-I-I-P-P-P-I-N-G it off in a split second (hopefully) or an at- home waxing kit.
Next time, it's the kit!
FAST FORWARD: 5 MONTHS LATER, IN MY KITCHEN, HOME WAX KIT IN HAND.
Directions: "Melt wax in microwave." Okay.
"Take wooden lollipop stick and slather steaming wax on skin." I've birthed two children, so no problem.
"Firmly press a 2" x 10" cotton strip on wax-covered skin. Authoritatively, grasp strip and rip briskly from skin."
That all sounds too methodical. Instead, I'm going to apply the melted wax to all the necessary areas, adhere the strips, then rip them off in quick succession.
I get naked so I don't get wax on my clothes. I've accomplished steps 1 and 2, the slathering and adhering part. The white, cotton strips are clinging in disarray to my legs, pits, and crotch area. Now the ripping/stripping portion needs to commence, rather soon.
It's 1 p.m. Too early to unscrew that wine bottle . . . or is it? Somewhere in the world, we all know it's 5 p.m.
Instead of eating lunch, I have three glasses of wine. I'm confident that after a couple more, I will have no problem dislodging the mummified strips from my body.
"I'm starting to have fun," I say to myself, in a Boris Karloff voice.
A bath would be nice. The strips might come off and the hair along with it. I wonder how hot the water would need to be, 212 degrees? I feel like I've had too much to drink to safely take a bath. So, I might as well have another glass of wine.
It's now 5 p.m. Where has the day gone? Where has the wine gone? I haven't bathed, waxed, or dressed. This is not good.
Keys jingle in the door. My husband steps into the apartment. He takes it all in. The empty wine bottle, the waxing kit, the wine-splattered white strips stuck to my body, and somehow gets turned on.
"I get it," he smirks. "I'm the salon owner and you're my drunk client."
"Yeah, sure," I shrug. I figure it's one way to get these strips off.
Who'd of thought a home waxing kit would be so satisfying.
9:49 a.m. Body weight 121 pounds.
How did I do it?
Wax! Steaming, simmering liquid doused onto my underarm, bikini, and leg area in descending order of pain. Pain-induced sweat accounts for two lost pounds. The remaining three pounds were the locks of hair being ripped from my calves, pits, and groin. Yes, it was a lot of hair. Shaving and waxing are not high on my "to do" list . . ever. OUCH-EEE-MAMA! We women are insane. Okay, let me make it more personal. I'm crazy!
It's tough to decide what is more ridiculous. Paying a professional to lay strips of cloth on my wax-covered skin, and then R-R-I-I-I-P-P-P-I-N-G it off in a split second (hopefully) or an at- home waxing kit.
Next time, it's the kit!
FAST FORWARD: 5 MONTHS LATER, IN MY KITCHEN, HOME WAX KIT IN HAND.
Directions: "Melt wax in microwave." Okay.
"Take wooden lollipop stick and slather steaming wax on skin." I've birthed two children, so no problem.
"Firmly press a 2" x 10" cotton strip on wax-covered skin. Authoritatively, grasp strip and rip briskly from skin."
That all sounds too methodical. Instead, I'm going to apply the melted wax to all the necessary areas, adhere the strips, then rip them off in quick succession.
I get naked so I don't get wax on my clothes. I've accomplished steps 1 and 2, the slathering and adhering part. The white, cotton strips are clinging in disarray to my legs, pits, and crotch area. Now the ripping/stripping portion needs to commence, rather soon.
It's 1 p.m. Too early to unscrew that wine bottle . . . or is it? Somewhere in the world, we all know it's 5 p.m.
Instead of eating lunch, I have three glasses of wine. I'm confident that after a couple more, I will have no problem dislodging the mummified strips from my body.
"I'm starting to have fun," I say to myself, in a Boris Karloff voice.
A bath would be nice. The strips might come off and the hair along with it. I wonder how hot the water would need to be, 212 degrees? I feel like I've had too much to drink to safely take a bath. So, I might as well have another glass of wine.
It's now 5 p.m. Where has the day gone? Where has the wine gone? I haven't bathed, waxed, or dressed. This is not good.
Keys jingle in the door. My husband steps into the apartment. He takes it all in. The empty wine bottle, the waxing kit, the wine-splattered white strips stuck to my body, and somehow gets turned on.
"I get it," he smirks. "I'm the salon owner and you're my drunk client."
"Yeah, sure," I shrug. I figure it's one way to get these strips off.
Who'd of thought a home waxing kit would be so satisfying.
Friday, November 13, 2009
SHOES FOR RENT
FOR RENT: MY SHOES, WOMEN SIZE 7.5-8
I can never give away shoes. Why should I? My foot size hasn't changed in 20 years. Plus, these shoes represent part of the History of Me. But I am happy to rent them out. Relax and peruse my virtual closet.
Designer: Gapelle. If you love Twiggy, you'll love these Open-Toed Mules. Yellow and White Daisy Embossed Fabric, purchased on King's Road, London, circa 1996. The look is all 1960's though. Worn only twice while I was planting daisies on my terrace in my bikini thong. (Thong not included. It ended up where all thongs end up. Ouch!) Yellow and white nail polish mandatory!
Designer: Dollhouse. How can you go wrong with this name? I love dolls and I love these shoes! Envision pale, pink leather with tiny, pink and lime green beads. These precious Mules have a strap over the instep and a heel that looks like an upside-down dollop of whipped cream.
Designer: Seychelles. I've been to the Seychelle Islands, so obviously I had to purchase these. They are souped-up Mary Janes. While she was designing them, I think the designer had a few hits off her mary jane cigarette. They are patent leather, luminescent aquamarine with several layers of ecru stitching. For breathability, they have three peek-a-boo holes and a bow. Yeah, for real!
Designer: Kenneth Cole. Black patent leather Mary Janes with a silver buckle. "Wake me up before 'ya go, Girl!" Boring basics are a necessity at times!
Designer: Unisa. Roman-style, lace-up sandals, reminiscent of ones I had in 6th grade! Picture a flat, wooden sole with burlap to support the heel and a thick burlap strap over the toes. Strap is ensconced with fake puca shells and gemstones. Don't forget to strap these bad boy leather laces up to the knee! So appropriate if you're drinking rum punches on the Jolly Roger party boat in the Bahamas. I promise!
Designer: Stuart Weitzman. See, I do have some taste, despite the Roman sandals! True FM Sling Backs. If you don't know what FM stands for, then FU and quit reading my Blog! Four-inch heels that replicate daggers. Black fishnet body stocking not included!
Designer: Point. "I Dream of Jeannie" Slippers. The sultry teal raw silk is sprinkled with translucent red and purple beading. Slide into these, smoke a hookah, and drink coffee thicker than chocolate pudding. You'll think you're in Casablanca. Hello, Humphrey Bogart!
Designer: Pineda Colvalin. Three-inch slick black heel. Oaxaca-style animal stitching in various colors on these blood-red silk pointed Mules, purchased in Cancun. Matching purse. Who am I kidding? I'm not letting these out of my sight!
Maker: Rockport. Never worn (but 10 years old). Ox blood traditional preppy Loafers. For my Connecticut friends. You know who you are.
Designer: Dr. Scholl's. Oops! I mean Chocolat Blu. Merlot colored Boots with matching corduroy stitched interior and a petite buckle pocket on the side. Too small for a cell phone, but for the active dating girl, perhaps she could store something in here.
Obviously, these aren't all my shoes. Just the ones I can easily describe! Next time, I'll simply post photos, but where's the fun in that?
Is J. Peterman looking for copywriters for his catalog?
I can never give away shoes. Why should I? My foot size hasn't changed in 20 years. Plus, these shoes represent part of the History of Me. But I am happy to rent them out. Relax and peruse my virtual closet.
Designer: Gapelle. If you love Twiggy, you'll love these Open-Toed Mules. Yellow and White Daisy Embossed Fabric, purchased on King's Road, London, circa 1996. The look is all 1960's though. Worn only twice while I was planting daisies on my terrace in my bikini thong. (Thong not included. It ended up where all thongs end up. Ouch!) Yellow and white nail polish mandatory!
Designer: Dollhouse. How can you go wrong with this name? I love dolls and I love these shoes! Envision pale, pink leather with tiny, pink and lime green beads. These precious Mules have a strap over the instep and a heel that looks like an upside-down dollop of whipped cream.
Designer: Seychelles. I've been to the Seychelle Islands, so obviously I had to purchase these. They are souped-up Mary Janes. While she was designing them, I think the designer had a few hits off her mary jane cigarette. They are patent leather, luminescent aquamarine with several layers of ecru stitching. For breathability, they have three peek-a-boo holes and a bow. Yeah, for real!
Designer: Kenneth Cole. Black patent leather Mary Janes with a silver buckle. "Wake me up before 'ya go, Girl!" Boring basics are a necessity at times!
Designer: Unisa. Roman-style, lace-up sandals, reminiscent of ones I had in 6th grade! Picture a flat, wooden sole with burlap to support the heel and a thick burlap strap over the toes. Strap is ensconced with fake puca shells and gemstones. Don't forget to strap these bad boy leather laces up to the knee! So appropriate if you're drinking rum punches on the Jolly Roger party boat in the Bahamas. I promise!
Designer: Stuart Weitzman. See, I do have some taste, despite the Roman sandals! True FM Sling Backs. If you don't know what FM stands for, then FU and quit reading my Blog! Four-inch heels that replicate daggers. Black fishnet body stocking not included!
Designer: Point. "I Dream of Jeannie" Slippers. The sultry teal raw silk is sprinkled with translucent red and purple beading. Slide into these, smoke a hookah, and drink coffee thicker than chocolate pudding. You'll think you're in Casablanca. Hello, Humphrey Bogart!
Designer: Pineda Colvalin. Three-inch slick black heel. Oaxaca-style animal stitching in various colors on these blood-red silk pointed Mules, purchased in Cancun. Matching purse. Who am I kidding? I'm not letting these out of my sight!
Maker: Rockport. Never worn (but 10 years old). Ox blood traditional preppy Loafers. For my Connecticut friends. You know who you are.
Designer: Dr. Scholl's. Oops! I mean Chocolat Blu. Merlot colored Boots with matching corduroy stitched interior and a petite buckle pocket on the side. Too small for a cell phone, but for the active dating girl, perhaps she could store something in here.
Obviously, these aren't all my shoes. Just the ones I can easily describe! Next time, I'll simply post photos, but where's the fun in that?
Is J. Peterman looking for copywriters for his catalog?
Monday, November 2, 2009
Bobbi Brown
Bobbi Brown is my Bitch! Yeah, Baby, she is. Well . . . I think so. Or maybe it's vice versa. The problem is I'm not really sure what the term "Bitch" means in 21st Century dialogue.
Every ten years or so, I update my make-up. Somewhere along the line, I got sucked into (I mean introduced) to The Bobbi Brown Way of Life. This means I spend a lot of money to look completely natural, but with a sophisticated flair. Yeah, okay, I like marketing!
So, I go to Bergdorf-Goodman. They actually do allow middle-income people in there! And boy, do I fit in. Me, the Saudi Princesses, and other types of Princesses, too! The make-up/make-over/cosmetic stations are in the basement. Very smart, lots of natural lighting!
My saviour for the day was Cassandra. Bobbi wasn't working the counter that day. By the end of our beauty session, Cassandra really seemed to like me. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I had to use two credit cards to pay for my over haul!
Our session fell into two categories: Maintenance and Beauty
I carried along my ten year-old containers of make-up dust to share with Bobbi and Cassandra: base, blush, and bronzer
Cassandra kindly assured me the 21st Century wasn't out of my realm if we acted quickly. She introduced me to the evening routine first as to not overwhelm me. She assured me I could accomplish these few short steps even when intoxicated. She seems to know me already.
Exfoliate face
Air dry
Lovingly pat eye balm around Entire Eye Area
Sweep Night Cream onto remaining flesh, including necks (not a typo). Sweep correctly and your face will Lift and Firm all night long. Remember in French, it is Cre'me de Nuit. How great is that!!!
Sleep for an uninterrupted 12 hours for optimum results
AM Maintenance:
Cold water on face
Air dry or blow dry on high if in a hurry. Careful of the Under Eye Area
Methodically titillate Hydrating Eye Cream onto Under Eye Area only. Please do not confuse Entire Eye Area with Under Eye Area
Dot and blend in Time Resisting Day Cream, formally known as moisturizer
Next two items go hand in hand, like butter and jam. Corrector and Creamy Concealer Kit. Remember, it's still the Maintenance Portion of my Beauty Program.
Dab Corrector ( in my case, Light Bisque) on the Under Eye Area. Let air dry several minutes.
Gently, dot on Creamy Concealer Kit (Warm Ivory for me) in the same area as Corrector and Hydrating Eye Cream. Is it really a mystery why women have wrinkles here?
My next two products fall between the cracks of Maintenance and Beauty. Perhaps it sounds better if I describe them as bridges between Maintenance and Beauty.
Bridge Items:
Bobbi Brown SPF 25 Tinted Moisturizing Balm. For those of you still in the 20th Century, this used to be called Base Make-up. Now, why did I glob on the Time Resisting Day Creme with SPF 12 if I have this Balm that is suppose to moisturize? Does that now mean I'm protected up to SPF 37 with double the amount of lotion, I mean Balm/Creme? Anyone, anyone? An answer please.
"WARNING: Keep Tinted Moisturizing Balm out of eyes." It doesn't say anything about that "Under Eye Area." I think Bobbi is trying to mess with me or just never thought anyone would read the extra-fine small print on the back of these boxes. My color is Light Tint. Are you starting to get the impression that I'm fairer-skinned than Michael Jackson? Ouch!
My second Bridge Item is a Vanilla Stick. I made this name up because I tossed the box. The color is correct though . . .Vanilla. Apply to Eyelid and Upper Eye Area so Eye Shadow will adhere all day and all night long.
Now to move into the Beauty Portion of my morning
My Eye Shades are Navajo, Mahogany, and Cement. Attractive, huh? Well, I brush and sweep and line this on over the Vanilla Stick for such a natural look that no one realizes I have $70 of Bobbi Brown Product on my eyelid alone! Rest assured, the Vanilla Stick will keep it on all day and all night.
I bought the No Smudge Mascara knowing that I'd use it twice a year.
I even showed Cassandra/Bobbi my make-up brushes. She allowed me to keep them, but begged me to wash them. Yeah, right. They've been good for ten years without seeing any Woolite. What's another ten?
Bronzing Powder: The name is misleading. The term "Bronzing" should only be used with ridiculously handsome lifeguards. My color is Golden Light 1. This is the sole reason why women wear make-up. Take the powdered brush in hand and fluff the horse hairs where ever you want. Well, as long as that's below the cheek bone, above the jaw line. Dance the brush above the eyebrows; don't touch the Under Eye area. There's already enough accouterments cemented there. A dusting of Bronzing Powder is even allowed on your necks, if you want.
Can you guess what is next?
Blush, of course. Oops! I didn't really mean that. We cutting edge women refer to it as Sheer Color Cheek Tint. Well, mine is a blendable, buildable color for comfortable wear. Wow, someone got paid for that text?
I bought several lip glosses, lip cremes, and lip sticks because they all had deliciously, sexy names. Cassandra/Bobbi assured me they would serve my lips well.
Now that I rethink this whole ordeal and have essentially bought Bobbi six Egyptian cotton bathsheets, perhaps I am her B-I-T-C-H.
I don't think that's good, right?
Regardless, people do say I'm a naturally beauty now.
DISCLAIMER: Not all of the products mentioned above are Bobbi Brown Products. A couple of them may be from Boots Pharmacy, London. Well, sort of. The Boots Products can now be purchased at your local Target Department Store. Please pronounce the name "Target" with a French accent as you read this Blog. Thank you.
Every ten years or so, I update my make-up. Somewhere along the line, I got sucked into (I mean introduced) to The Bobbi Brown Way of Life. This means I spend a lot of money to look completely natural, but with a sophisticated flair. Yeah, okay, I like marketing!
So, I go to Bergdorf-Goodman. They actually do allow middle-income people in there! And boy, do I fit in. Me, the Saudi Princesses, and other types of Princesses, too! The make-up/make-over/cosmetic stations are in the basement. Very smart, lots of natural lighting!
My saviour for the day was Cassandra. Bobbi wasn't working the counter that day. By the end of our beauty session, Cassandra really seemed to like me. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I had to use two credit cards to pay for my over haul!
Our session fell into two categories: Maintenance and Beauty
I carried along my ten year-old containers of make-up dust to share with Bobbi and Cassandra: base, blush, and bronzer
Cassandra kindly assured me the 21st Century wasn't out of my realm if we acted quickly. She introduced me to the evening routine first as to not overwhelm me. She assured me I could accomplish these few short steps even when intoxicated. She seems to know me already.
Exfoliate face
Air dry
Lovingly pat eye balm around Entire Eye Area
Sweep Night Cream onto remaining flesh, including necks (not a typo). Sweep correctly and your face will Lift and Firm all night long. Remember in French, it is Cre'me de Nuit. How great is that!!!
Sleep for an uninterrupted 12 hours for optimum results
I smiled graciously at Cassandra, who apparently lives on another planet. "No problem," I cooed. "I always go to bed at 5 p.m. when I need to get up at 5 a.m."
Silence. We're moving onto Morning Maintenance
AM Maintenance:
Cold water on face
Air dry or blow dry on high if in a hurry. Careful of the Under Eye Area
Methodically titillate Hydrating Eye Cream onto Under Eye Area only. Please do not confuse Entire Eye Area with Under Eye Area
Dot and blend in Time Resisting Day Cream, formally known as moisturizer
Next two items go hand in hand, like butter and jam. Corrector and Creamy Concealer Kit. Remember, it's still the Maintenance Portion of my Beauty Program.
Dab Corrector ( in my case, Light Bisque) on the Under Eye Area. Let air dry several minutes.
Gently, dot on Creamy Concealer Kit (Warm Ivory for me) in the same area as Corrector and Hydrating Eye Cream. Is it really a mystery why women have wrinkles here?
My next two products fall between the cracks of Maintenance and Beauty. Perhaps it sounds better if I describe them as bridges between Maintenance and Beauty.
Bridge Items:
Bobbi Brown SPF 25 Tinted Moisturizing Balm. For those of you still in the 20th Century, this used to be called Base Make-up. Now, why did I glob on the Time Resisting Day Creme with SPF 12 if I have this Balm that is suppose to moisturize? Does that now mean I'm protected up to SPF 37 with double the amount of lotion, I mean Balm/Creme? Anyone, anyone? An answer please.
"WARNING: Keep Tinted Moisturizing Balm out of eyes." It doesn't say anything about that "Under Eye Area." I think Bobbi is trying to mess with me or just never thought anyone would read the extra-fine small print on the back of these boxes. My color is Light Tint. Are you starting to get the impression that I'm fairer-skinned than Michael Jackson? Ouch!
My second Bridge Item is a Vanilla Stick. I made this name up because I tossed the box. The color is correct though . . .Vanilla. Apply to Eyelid and Upper Eye Area so Eye Shadow will adhere all day and all night long.
Now to move into the Beauty Portion of my morning
My Eye Shades are Navajo, Mahogany, and Cement. Attractive, huh? Well, I brush and sweep and line this on over the Vanilla Stick for such a natural look that no one realizes I have $70 of Bobbi Brown Product on my eyelid alone! Rest assured, the Vanilla Stick will keep it on all day and all night.
I bought the No Smudge Mascara knowing that I'd use it twice a year.
I even showed Cassandra/Bobbi my make-up brushes. She allowed me to keep them, but begged me to wash them. Yeah, right. They've been good for ten years without seeing any Woolite. What's another ten?
Bronzing Powder: The name is misleading. The term "Bronzing" should only be used with ridiculously handsome lifeguards. My color is Golden Light 1. This is the sole reason why women wear make-up. Take the powdered brush in hand and fluff the horse hairs where ever you want. Well, as long as that's below the cheek bone, above the jaw line. Dance the brush above the eyebrows; don't touch the Under Eye area. There's already enough accouterments cemented there. A dusting of Bronzing Powder is even allowed on your necks, if you want.
Can you guess what is next?
Blush, of course. Oops! I didn't really mean that. We cutting edge women refer to it as Sheer Color Cheek Tint. Well, mine is a blendable, buildable color for comfortable wear. Wow, someone got paid for that text?
I bought several lip glosses, lip cremes, and lip sticks because they all had deliciously, sexy names. Cassandra/Bobbi assured me they would serve my lips well.
Now that I rethink this whole ordeal and have essentially bought Bobbi six Egyptian cotton bathsheets, perhaps I am her B-I-T-C-H.
I don't think that's good, right?
Regardless, people do say I'm a naturally beauty now.
DISCLAIMER: Not all of the products mentioned above are Bobbi Brown Products. A couple of them may be from Boots Pharmacy, London. Well, sort of. The Boots Products can now be purchased at your local Target Department Store. Please pronounce the name "Target" with a French accent as you read this Blog. Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)