Aya

Guess who the latest honourees on my shitlist are?

Young, pretty, well-groomed guys behind the counter at MAC, that’s whom.

I’ve watched these style mavens on TV and I know some of them have impeccable taste in makeup, colours and all that good stuff I was born genetically deficient in.

I stepped to the counter wanting to replace my lip glosses.  The same damn colours for 2 years.  I needed a bloody change, some retail therapy, make me beautiful goddamit!

I wanted to say: “I’ve been feeling pretty haggard, preparing to become my own boss in a few short weeks.  My hair’s been falling a little at the front from the stress and I haven’t been as diligent with my waxing.  I’m ashamed to admit that I’m afraid of becoming the bearded, balding, boobied freak in my family.  Make me the object of every man’s desire, give me the face that men will launch a thousand ships for and kill each other like frenzied baboons.  Make me beautiful, dammit!”

Instead, I asked sheepishly if they have plum-tinted lipgloss.  He took one look at my cracked, dry, uneven coloured lips.  My rheumy eyes, my dry hair.  Then he rolled his eyes.  I’ve offended every god of beauty and beauty products.  I felt so ashamed.  I sized him up and figured I could jump over the counter and smear his foundation before I knock him out.

See how un-beautiful even my thoughts have become.

He struts to the back, comes back holding something I didn’t ask for, thinks deeply about some foundation/pressed powder ethical dilemma and breathes out in exasperated pity: “I would go with a little deeper colour.  Something with a reddish undertone.”

I just nodded.  I needed to be home, put on my SpongeBob slippers, make myself a cup of cocoa and mourn my dreams of becoming a Victoria’s Secret model.  The most I can model now is a pair of Midas tires.

Sigh.

Young, pretty, well-groomed men of the world, I am sending you bad skin, fat middles, and corduroy pants thoughts.

Well, I have some news about a most interesting dinner party I’ve attended recently.

You must remember a certain friend of mine who’s gone loco of late.  Shortly after she married a rich dude (nice too!) in a beautiful ceremony earlier in the summer.

B. was always a little hyperactive, full of great energy.  Nobody could sit around and scratch themselves in peace.  She could pack 2 or 3 major events into one evening, and then insist on watching Boyz n’ The Hood for the 100th time.  But she is a bloody amazing person to have around when somebody has a pity party.  Totally immune to it.  Frankly, I loved having her around because I can’t really tolerate self-pity.  Ten minutes is all you get from me, then you gotta get the fuck out of my breathing space.

The marriage didn’t change her at first, and she certainly didn’t have to leave her old throng of single friends behind because a good number in the group are married, some with kids.  She just became somber and demanding.  If people took a few minutes to coordinate a dinner plan, she complained about deliberate stalling.  If someone cancelled going to a show, she whined about being abandoned.  Dense as I normally am, a few grumblings and some bitching from other friends went completely unnoticed by me.

Anyhoos, girlfriend just totally went bonkers, attacked male and female friends alike, accusing the entire group of envying her and just not accepting that she wasn’t the same person anymore.  Okay, I took a few classes in psych and I’m partially raised by that cow Oprah, so my mind spat out some psychobabble to decipher her temporary madness.  Others called her a bitch, I thought she’s having some ish with her better (wealthier) half.  I cheated too.  I watched an episode of Criminal Intent where this crazy woman crumbled under the weight of a new lifestyle.

Back to the dinner party.

B.’s husband is a darling, by the way.  While he made the salad and someone else prepared the lamb, he insisted that we watch his mountain climbing video from 1996.  Some of the data he collected at the top became his MA thesis.

The dinner was going great until a person came in about 1 hour late.  She wore super high heels and an impossibly tight white skirt.  She carried a bag that my working stiff self valued at about 3 thousand dollars.  A close business associate and friend of B.’s husband.  She went around the table shaking hands.  A power shake if I’ve ever felt one.  Looked you straight in the eye and asked you how you were or commented on your hair or jewellery.

It was like a tsunami hit the 11 person table.  Forceful, engaging, confident.  she knew what the hell she was doing.

“Sally, partner with So-So-And-So…..”, she introduced herself.

Uh-huh.

My friend J.: “Vice principal at………”

A new dude at the table:”Financial analyst at Wells Fargo and …..”

It’s like we HAD to formally introduce ourselves now despite socializing and laughing together for the past 1.5 hours.

Then, it was my turn.

Me: “I’m the buck-toothed step-child of my father’s first wife”

Four giggles from my trusted old friends and B.’s husband.  Neither B. nor the white-skirt power chick get my lame-ass joke.  My friend B. looks mortified and stares at me like I had just thrown her first born son into a trash can.

Aha!

Now I know what’s driving her nuts!  It’s that power chick.  If her husband’s friends are all like that and she must socialize with them, I wouldn’t be surprised if she rips her clothes off and holds a kindergarten class hostage.

Or maybe not.  What the hell do I know about crazy people?!

Dudes!

First, I miss you.

Second, this super awesome pic that was on my blog for a hot minute is totally inspired by and is inspiring to a lifelong dream of mine to write a non-fiction book on painters, dancers, sculptors and all kinds of other artists.  It’s actually a series of photoessays of artists at work, amidst their creation.