How To Kick-Start Your Diet
I did it!
The “Dreaded Colonoscopy”.
Only it wasn’t so dreaded. It was easy. Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy. (literally ‘lemon squeezy’)
The hardest part was the prep. Which really wasn’t as bad as I’d read. My blogger friend Paula http://paulatohlinecalhoun1951.wordpress.com/ linked me to Dave Barry’s hilarious account a while back http://www.miamiherald.com/2009/02/11/v-fullstory/427603/dave-barry-a-journey-into-my-colon.html. While Dave needed a seatbelt on his toilet, I only needed to stay within fifteen feet of mine – and some chafing cream.
So that wasn’t too bad. What was awful was watching my husband eat all kinds of goodies. He made ham-and-pickle salad with the leftover Easter Ham. I adore ham-and-pickle salad. In fact, it is right up there with lobster. But no. I ate green jello with a Dulcolax chaser. He had roasted almonds dusted with sea salt. I had a beef bullion cube. He had the chocolate covered strawberries I gave him for Easter. I had lemony Drain-O.
I got up before dawn. That wasn’t too hard because I was up every eighteen minutes anyway.
The doctor’s orders said no make-up. That was really hard. But I have a nice tinted moisturizer. Surely that would be okay. And my new blush is really sheer. But what if they couldn’t tell I was cyanotic because my blush looked so fresh and healthy? I took it off. (I left on my new concealer though – they don’t need my dark undereye circles to check my oxygen levels…)
And no contact lenses! No one has seen me in glasses since I had my gallbladder out. So here’s another medical establishment I can never frequent again.
We went to the Endoscopy Center as the sun was just coming up. Good thing Dunkin Donuts is open at that hour. Hubbie needed a glazed donut. I needed the ladies’ room.
The nurse at the Center was very nice. She explained all about the procedure. She gave me a hospital gown in size XXXXXL. It fit pretty good.
She told me that when I woke up, I would be in the recovery room with other patients who had the same procedure. “You all have to let all the air out,” she said, delicately describing the Farting Room. “It will be very musical. Just join the band.”
They gave me Propofol to knock me out. Let me tell you: I understand why Michael Jackson loved this stuff. I was out for twenty minutes, and woke up as refreshed as if I had slept eight hours. And euphoric.
And my colon is perfect. “Absolutely perfect,” said the doctor. She gave me pictures. And you know what? My colon IS perfect. Just like my Grandma used to tell me when I was an eight-year-old ugly duckling – “I am pretty on the inside”. I won’t share those photos with you, but let me say that my colon is like a chain of rosebuds, delicately unfurling.
I felt so good, I went out to breakfast without make-up or contacts. And I even laughed when I farted as the waitress brought me my scrambled eggs and bacon. That Propofol is pretty damn good.
And I lost two pounds.
Move Over, Sue Ellen
Now that I have my blonde highlights, I figured I would go out and buy yet MORE new makeup.
After all, now I’m a blonde (sort of), and so I might need slightly different shades.
Although my favorite makeup arena is the drugstore aisle, I treated myself to a trip to Sephora. Sephora lets you play with their stuff, and I wanted to try colors against my new semi-blondness.
I think that Sephora needs classier background music. Perhaps Verdi would make me feel beautiful. Or something French. French is beautiful. But Sephora throbs with pop tunes – throbbier than Lady GaGa. In fact, Lady GaGa would sound like Edith Piaf after fifteen minutes in Sephora.
I wandered up and down the colorful rows, which of course were completely changed around since the last time I was there. But before I could dip my fingers (just kidding–I used their nice sanitary sticks) into the pots, the saleslady came to help.
There were four salespeople in the store.
Three looked like this:
A little winged on the liner, but overall, nicely done. Young, stylish but understated (except for the wings). These young girls might know a thing or two about makeup.
The fourth lady looked like this:
This was the lady who waited on me.
At least she’s my age, I thought. The last time I went to Sephora, the adolescent sales associate showed me how swell I would look in gray eyeshadow. Yeah, lead-pipe gray is great on sixty-one-year-old eyelids.
I explained about my new haircolor, and of course the saleslady agreed that I needed to update my blush.
“Tangerine is the new hot color, and it will be perfect,” she said.
I expressed my doubt about orange blush.
“Well, how about a beautiful coral?” she asked, and took out a pot that was definitely tangerine. “It goes on sheerer than it looks,” she insisted.
And surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad. The more I looked at myself, I thought it was quite attractive. This Tammy Faye look-alike might actually know a thing about makeup.
So I asked her about a concealer. Yes, I know I just wrote about my new favorite concealer. But that doesn’t mean there might be a better one out there. One that would conceal thirty years.
Of course she had one. It was concealer on one end and illuminator on the other. I’m not sure what illuminator is, but I could need it.
Then it was lipstick time. Saleslady took out bright orange, but I demurred.
“Teeny lips and bright colors don’t work,” I said.
So she took out muted bright orange.
“With thin lips, you just extend a bit outside your natural lipline.” she advised, and drew me a much fuller mouth. It didn’t really bear too much relationship to my own mouth. I guess lips are just a suggestion that you don’t necessarily have to follow.
And she added eyeshadow and eyebrow pencil and liner. And kept going. She’d run from one aisle to the next, while I wiped some of the excess off with a tissue.
But I liked the blush and the concealer.
“You can trust me,” she said. “I’ve been doing professional makeup for forty years. I did the makeup on ‘Dallas‘.”
That explained a lot.
When she was done, she was so excited by my metamorphosis, she gave me a nice hug – although she was careful not to smudge either of our thick faces.
And while she was putting away the dozens of products she had taken out, I picked out a nice honey-colored sheer lipstick.
And since I’ve had several requests for the big reveal, here it is:
Crazy flashy to me. Probably too subtle to notice for everyone else.
When Training Backfires
When it comes to understanding women, my husband is a slow learner.
For instance:
He doesn’t ‘get’ hair.
When we first met, more than twenty years ago, he actually thought that women liked their hair.
He believed all that ‘crowning glory’ crap.
He thought waist-length hair was pretty on every woman. He thought women didn’t wake up with cowlicks.
He thought Suzanne Somers was a natural blonde.
He didn’t understand:
that straight hair makes women cry.
that curly hair makes women cry.
that fine hair makes women cry.
that thick hair makes women cry.
That my hair appointment is the most important day of the month,
and that I cry when I come home.
At the beginning of our relationship, he would say forbidden things.
Like:
“What did you do to your hair?”
“Isn’t that awfully short?”
It was difficult to remain married.
But gradually over the years (decades really), he learned a little.
It took him ten years to say,
“How do YOU feel about your hair?” – which was quite an improvement.
And after fifteen years, he finally found the correct response.
“How was your day?”
*****
Okay. Five years later.
Back to Suzanne Somers.
My husband loves blondes. LOVES.
And since I’m pretty gray now (underneath), I figured that going blonde might actually be easy. I won’t have dark roots.
So last week I went to the hairdresser, and spent an extra hour (and an extra hundred) getting me some wicked blonde highlights.
I kept it a secret.
I wanted to wow him.
And I came home.
And he said,
“How was your day?”
Multiple Choice
I’m all for choice.
I like web sites that show you five ways to wear a white shirt. Or the top six lipsticks. Or the ten best books ever written. I can even go for the six best lipsticks to wear while reading the ten best novels.
But some sites are getting a little carried away.
The award for the craziest amount of choices has to belong to iVillage.com.
The emails they send me daily make me dizzy.
Like:
“45 Beef Recipes To Try Tonight!”
I like to cook, but I usually just try one recipe per evening.
******
“177 Food Tips for a Healthy Diet”
We could all use diet tips – but that’s a pretty long slide show. I may need a snack halfway through.
******
“50 Springtime Handbags To Buy Today!”
I love to shop, and I’m more than a little self-indulgent, but my husband might be disconcerted when the UPS truck drops off that many boxes of purses.
*******
And just today:
“49 Bangs Styles To Try!”
There’s full, there’s straight, there’s sideways; there’s long and there’s short. But 49? My hair is pretty fine – I’m not sure I have 49 hairs to make bangs with.
Of course when I was a little girl I had teenie-weenie bangs.
Easter Sunday, 1957.
So I’m certainly glad that there is more than one style of bangs.
Because Mamie Eisenhower bangs would not be a good look for me now.
Easter Sunday, 2012?
Bangs and Dress, but let's skip the hat.
Flight Path
I used to fly a lot for business. I got to be very good at it, especially when I was lucky enough to fly first class (which is a wonderfully terrible waste of money).
But my current job doesn’t require any travel. And I’m basically a homebody. So that means I don’t travel much at all anymore.
So now when I take the occasional trip, the idiosyncrasies of travel seem more noticeable.
On this last little trip, I noticed:
1. That there is now an additional fee to check your bag. So everyone has two carry-ons. Which no longer fit. So if you board the plane last, there’s no more room for carry-ons, and they check your bag for you. For free. Huh?
2. I read somewhere that efficiency studies have been done to get passengers aboard in the quickest, easiest way possible. The results of these studies must have been lost. The entire plane is Zone 4.
3. Air travel attracts people who have the craziest pets in the world. (Maybe because their owners are flying away all the time.) The Sky Mall has page upon page like this:
I particularly like the Porch Potty, which comes in Standard or Premium with a scented fire hydrant and a hygienic sprinkler system.
And there are mahogany crates and baby-gates, fountains, food dishes with timers, bird-watching videos, and many other accessories for the neglected pet.
4. Air travelers have now begun to WEAR THEIR PILLOWS when they travel. The boarding gate looks like a whiplash convention.
I didn’t see this guy, though.
But I am sure it is just a matter of time.
5. Some instructions are unnecessary. I have a step-stool at home that has a little warning on the non-step side.
I can see where I may accidentally use the wrong side as I climb up to clean my light fixture. But I also noticed from my assigned seat (in Zone 4) that the “NOT A STEP!” sign also appears on the wing of the plane.
6. I am sure that some guy with a sick sense of humor cleans the plane between flights. This comedian must go around and shorten every seat belt as he straightens up. No matter where I sat on the many legs of my journey, I had to let out the seat belt about nine inches. Not funny.
I’m Stickin’ With It
Another rerun while I play hooky…
******
I’ve heard it said that when you find a style that suits you, you should stick with it.
I’m not sure who said that – it was definitely not one of my mother’s pearls – but if I had to wager a guess, I’d say:
Liza Minnelli
Over the years I have developed a fondness for cardigan sweaters. I love a cardigan sweater over a cami. I love it with jeans, slacks, crops, skirts, shorts. I’d probably even go for harem pants, if I could add a cardigan.
Cardigans are figure-flattering, no matter what. Having a skinny day? Button in at the middle, and give yourself a teeny waist. Chubby today? Leave it open and the two sides will give you a nice vertical line–very slimming with that one stripe of camisole down the middle. I prefer a white cami, just about always, although a pop of color is sometimes nice. Like off-white.
So the other day my husband and I stopped at TJ Maxx so he could buy some new underwear. He’s responsible for his own laundry, so I have no idea why he needs six pairs every month or so, but that’s his business.
Anyway, while he was contemplating whether he wanted to try those new bermuda-brief things, I wandered over to the sweater department. They had a whole new shipment of cardigans, and the price was excellent. I was especially drawn to the pale gray-green and the orchid. These colors would really work with my wardrobe, so I bought both.
So now I have an almost complete cardigan collection.
It’s almost complete, because I’m thinking about going back for the ecru that would fit nicely into this mix… and I could always use a paler blue. Or a darker green.
I have some print cardigans too – argyle, paisley. floral. Because they add significant variety to my wardrobe.
There’s A Hole In My Bucket List
I’m taking a few days off, so here is a repeat from back in August, when I first started blogging:
Famous People I have met:
1. Helen Hayes, 1981
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
Famous People I almost met:
Several years ago, when my husband and I were house-hunting, we looked at a little house in Litchfield Connecticut. it was an eyebrow colonial – isn’t that an adorable term? I think it means that the second floor ceiling is at about eyebrow height. You could see through a few (half) of the stairs, and the kitchen floor was so slanted, that when you went from the refrigerator to the stove, it was hard not to break into a run down the slope. But it was a very very nice neighborhood.
A few months later we read in the paper that the next door neighbors had hosted a democratic fundraising event, and that the Clintons had stopped by. So if we had bought that house, and I hadn’t cracked my head getting out of the shower, or fallen through the stairs, or tumbled down the kitchen hill, I would have met Bill and Hillary.
There was a rather large hedge between the two houses, but towards the back there was a thin spot, so I am pretty sure I would have been able to squeeze through.
A Quickie
So we were scrolling through the channel guide a few nights ago, looking in vain for something to watch in the 7,684 channel choices.
Around channel 309, my husband says, “Wait, go back.”
And of course I knew what he meant.
Sex and The City 2.
“You know,” I said, “Just because the word ‘sex’ is in the title doesn’t mean it’s a good movie.”
“Yeah, but it means it might be.”
****
Which reminded me of the old joke:
Sex is like pizza.
When it’s good it’s really good.
And when it’s bad…
it’s still pretty good.
Tattletale
I admit it.
I was a terrible little tattletale.
I could claim that it was because I had two older sisters who tormented me, so I always ended up running to Mommy with tearful complaints.
Only not exactly.
Sure they tormented me, but that was their job as big sisters. And actually, their torment was exactly like what I handed out to my little brother.
I just loved to cry. I was the original drama queen.
But more than that, I liked tattling because it proved that I knew. I knew what everyone was doing and I was dying to tell everyone I knew. Because, in addition to being a drama queen, I was a know-it-all.
Yes, I was a little bundle of joy.
And now it appears that I’m getting a little payback.
Someone is tattling on me.
I have a little know-it-all that is just dying to tell my friends and family about every dumb thing I do.
It’s Yahoo.
Somehow I must have hit the wrong “allow” a few weeks ago, because Yahoo is now posting on Facebook the titles of the questionable articles I have been reading.
When I am opening my email, I am sometimes tempted by the stupidest headlines. But it’s okay to read trash in private, isn’t it?
But Yahoo is tattling.
It started with this Facebook posting:
Nancy read an article: “Ashley Judd Lashes Out At Plastic Surgery Rumors”
I was a little irritated. And the very next day, Yahoo posted:
Nancy read an article: “Kris Jenner’s Inappropriate Outfit Copies Daughter Kim Kardashian”
Okay, that’s quite enough. I am supposed to be an intellectual (or at least not a moron).
So I resolved not to click on any more of those silly teasers. But sometimes I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
Five days ago:
Nancy read an article: “Angelina Jolie Responds To Oscar Dress Leg Phenomenon”
Can I unclick that?
Can I tell my Facebook friends that my cat stepped on the keys?
Yesterday I caught myself just before I clicked “Star Under Fire for Chewing Food for Baby”.
I said “NO.” (Out loud I think.)
And I looked for a brainy, esoteric article that Yahoo could tell everyone I read.
On Yahoo, that’s not so easy.
But I found one:
Nancy read an article: “Everything You Need To Know about Cauliflower”.
***
My Beauty Advisor
When you’re a girly-girl, it doesn’t stop when you reach a certain age.
I love makeup just as much as I did when I was twelve and bought my first Pink Cameo lipstick.
Makeup holds so much promise. The next foundation might make me glow. The right eyeliner can turn me into Elizabeth Taylor (or maybe Queen Elizabeth, but there’s always hope).
Too old for that? Ask my mother.
When I visit, we always talk about makeup and hair and fashion. My mother doesn’t go out that much anymore – the supermarket, the senior center, the hairdresser – but she reads all the magazines and watches all the talk shows on TV. She knows what’s in.
Last month, I brought over our weekly McDonalds (our big indulgence) and we talked about concealer. My mother read about some new concealer and bought it that day in Stop N Shop. She let me try it on. It was really quite nice. Sharing fast food and makeup tips. Girlfriends.
Truth is, I liked it so much, I bought some. I didn’t just happen to pick it up. I had to go to two stores to find the same shade. It’s my new favorite. (until I find something new next month.)
Two weeks ago, my mother showed me a new blush. It was a combination blush and bronzer, and it was very inexpensive. “I read about it, and it sounded perfect,” she said. And she encouraged me to try it. And it was great. It brightened my complexion just enough. I had warmth, but not a hot flash.
Only when I got home, I couldn’t remember what it was. I walked up and down at my mother’s beauty source – the cosmetics aisle at Stop N Shop, but nothing looked familiar.
So last week I brought over McDoubles and Fries – but no apple pies, since we’re ‘dieting’. We talked mostly about hair. My mother likes the hairdresser at the next chair, but she feels guilty about her regular guy. She’d like to schedule appointments on Fred’s day off, and try the other stylist. But Fred always answers the phone. I can sympathize.
Before I left for home, I went to the bathroom. And as I was washing my hands, I looked at the medicine cabinet, and I remembered that new blush. I opened the cabinet and there it was. I tried it again, and noted the name of the color.
I used to sneak into my mother’s makeup fifty years ago.
Should I be proud that she’s still stylish?
Or embarrassed that my beauty consultant is eighty-eight?
***
notquiteold 