Friday, April 23, 2010

Fosmopolitan Friday... products I'm loving.

Aveda hand relief is to die for... creamy without being sticky or sickening sweet.  My mom just got me a travel size... perfect for a girl on the go.

If you haven't been asked to host an Arbonne party yet, you will.  It's sweeping fresh-skinned trendy tribes across the globe.  I hosted one and ended up getting a ridiculous amount of discounted product.  I threw in the Foaming Sea Salt Scrub last minute and OH. MY. GOD.  I'm prone to eruptive skin and it's magical.  And it doesn't leave me smelling like a lollipop.

Thick and wavy hair seems all fun when you're pool side, but in real life it gets tricky.  Luckily I have the best stylist (Sean at ColorBox) who gives my "cast iron" hair lots of tough love and lots of layers.  I don't have time to do my hair every morning, I'm just too busy sleeping until the last possible second.  With Bumble and bumble. curl conscious I can leave the house, leave my hair wet and bug it with this spray all day long.  Oh, one more thing: it smells divine.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

A love test.

"My little dog - a heartbeat at my feet."  ~Edith Wharton

Sudi, the queen of our family pets, had a litter of darling longhaired dachshunds.  Kiwi was one of them.  Like her siblings, a loving home was found for her.  Three days later, Kiwi was returned to us from the driver's side window of a car that barely slowed down to return her.  My mom, the psychic matriarch she is, hadn't even cashed the check.  Kiwi was always a little... unique.

When I was 15, I went on my first date.  When the cool and popular sophomore showed up at our door, Kiwi went crazy.  That wasn't the embarrassing part.  The mortifying moment was when my mom, yelling over the yapping, said, "You have to say 'ello Keeeweee!' in a New Zealand accent!" I grabbed Rhyan by the leather sleeve of his letterman's jacket and pulled him out the door, Kiwi nipping at his feet.

That wouldn't even be the worst part of the date.  The worst part would be him taking me to Toys R' Us to show me the video games, then McDonald's for dinner and finishing off with a movie... Junior.  He would spend the whole time reminding me that he used to date Allegra Rose, the homecoming queen.  I would spend the whole time hiding metal braces under pursed lips.

Kiwi died fourteen years later, five days before her 15th birthday.  She had started to lose her hair, a manifestation of her name: dry brown skin with an orange fuzz.  Her tail and bum, without fur, resembled an elephant's ass.  Mom called her "a love test".

It was a year ago that she went into the night with the coyotes never to return.  I was unpacking (still) this week and found a birthday card my mom gave me a couple of years ago.  It made me laugh so hard I cried.  I have no idea if it will translate to anyone who didn't know Kiwi, but Kiwi wouldn't care, so neither do I:

Today is your naming day.  After Mount Saint Helens blew, there were of course murmurs of naming the little one Helen.  Thankfully my post-partum depression hadn't quite set in so I was able to think on my feet and choose a name I had always loved.  It all seemed perfect with the Ammie and with the Margaret which then spelled S.A.M., another of my favorite names.  Sam didn't stick which is fine too; because Sarah seems just fine.  I love the direction you've taken in your life and am very proud of you always.

Kiwi picked this card out [a card with a dachshund on it] and wants to tell you that she also has decided to live in the present and quit worrying.  Since that decision was made, she found a new job and has her eye on a fine looking tall black man/lab that recently moved into the basement.  His name is Cody and she is smitten.  Her job is keeping the yard clear of any interlopers (Bear from next door) and trying not be so bitchy in front of Cody.  Yesterday, Cathy brought her puppies over which she thought were the most disgusting things she's ever seen.  She says happy birthday!

love, mom

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Humpty Dumpty Sat on a Wall...

Alanis Morissette - New Music - More Music Videos

"In the blue TV screen light I drew a map of Canada... I could drink a case of you, darling.  Still, I'd be on my feet." 
-Joni Mitchell 

I have a wall, a carefully constructed barrier that promises to keep you at a safe distance.  God forbid you smell my pheromones and fall in love with me, or worse, leave me.  My wall is fancy.  It's trendy and hip, fits in with all the other walls at the coffee shop.  I spend so much time with my wall, I forget it's there.  You even forget it's there.  Until you remember and tell me to put it away at dinner or in bed.  It's glossy and sparkles in the sun.  It's smooth and behind it, everything is brighter.  If you get close enough to touch it, you'll feel the surface give a little under the pressure of your fingertips.  Edges become sharper, corners become tighter.

I'm watching his lips move through the liquid crystal display of my wall.  We have no choice.  It's through my wall or not at all.  There's too much land between us for it to be any other way.  But I'm wondering if I press my palm flat up against the coolness, could I reach him?  If the curve of my thumb landed where his tears do, would he feel me?  If the line of my hand followed the line of his jaw until the soft of my pinky rested on the gentle skin behind his ear, would it soothe him?  Or would I be just another Americana?  Another deluded female with cliches swirling around her like spring pollen?  Would he cast me aside, glossy edges and all?  Without the glow, would he see my dark and disappear?

It's mating season, which I know must please him.  Another chance to ruminate on scientific proofs, analyze historical statistics that lurk in the shadows of all sexual behavior.  It's different for me.  Buried in the pile of american girl stereotypes is the biggest one of all:  I'm a R-O-M-A-N-T-I-C.  I'm just narcissistic enough to believe, that for me, it will be different.  For me it will be the Kate Winslet shit we race to the theaters to see.  For me, it will be pebbles tapping my window, but I won't be able to hear it through the pouring rain.  It will be a mixtape I've never heard.  I'll get flowers from a lover for the very first time.  They'll see all of me and they'll still be here.  I don't need science to back it up.  I have heart to back it up.  Sure, it didn't work out for 70% of you, but when it happens for me it is going to happen for me.  I'm just that narcissistic.  I'm just that naive.

He's talking the science of love and I'm the thinking the love of Love.  "It's been shown that women lose their 'desire cocktail' at 40 months."  Not me.  I don't even lose the desire cocktail 40 months after they leave me like a wounded bird.  He's heartbreakingly adorable.  He's the kind of man that sweeps feet off the ground by just walking into a room.  So while I kind of want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him this isn't how you woo a girl, telling her she'll want to upgrade you in 41 months, I also want to do other things to him, too.  The kind of thing that takes another kind of cocktail (or three).  The kind of things that can make walls fall down.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Which Crafty are you?

Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.  
~Anton Chekhov

As a little girl I would watch my mom move through her day... one creative step at a time.  Her talents have always been a patchwork quilt to me: warm squares woven together, each different in color and texture, to create the most beautiful big picture.

These days, I still know where to find her.  If it's sunny, she's in the garden or cleaning out the Koi pond.  On quiet afternoons she's upstairs in her "studio" painting.  Some mornings she's rummaging through her beads or her massive collection of buttons.  She's a Creative.  An interior designer, artist, baker, farmer, seamstress and so much more.

I was with mom when I got asked the same question I've been asked a million and two times, "Are you crafty like your mom?"  I was opening my mouth to deliver a rapid "no" when my mom answered for me, "She's crafty with her words."

We're all Creatives.  It's not a matter of being a creative type, it's a matter of being the type that allows yourself to be creative.  My most creative moments don't come from me.  Like you will hear from most artists, my creative moments come through me.

Phoebe has been telling me to find this TED piece of Elizabeth Gilbert for months.  I finally tracked it down.  I've seen her speak in Portland before and I was struck by her authenticity (as was the rest of the world).  Enjoy and please don't forget to celebrate the creativity the comes through you.