Tag: Humor

Love and the application of lipstick

Published on by NouveauSoileau2 Comments

Like a good many women, I like to look my best.

Therefore, I spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom each morning, applying lotions, makeup, hair-styling products, and other mysterious unguents in a (more or less successful) attempt to make myself look slightly better than I would in the natural state. Which in my case would be a pale face accompanied by tired freckles, less-than-luminous eyes, and thin, non-luscious lips.

It’s the lip portion of my face that I’d like to discuss today.

My lipstick-wearing has changed and evolved since becoming a mother lo these many years. In my teens and twenties, I slathered on the lip color with abandon, never worrying about its potential effect on others. Sure, I was careful not to unintentionally give cherry-red lips to the men I loved (or at least smooched), but other than that, I lacquered up the lips anytime I felt the kaleidoscope that was my eye-shadow palette at the time — we’re talking The Cyndi-Lauper Eighties here — needed the balance of some glossy hues.

Then came the nineties, and my entry into The Childbearing Years. Once I’d produced an infant, I gave up wearing not only lipstick but also perfume, after experiencing the shock of receiving back perfumy infants when I’d allowed them to be held by over-scented female relatives.

But mainly I kissed my sweet babies so often that there never was time to even think about lipsticking myself. Occasionally I’d dab on some Carmex to ward off winter chappiness, but otherwise my lips were completely au naturale.

Later, with preschoolers around, the high-volume kissing tends to be reciprocated. You love to kiss them, and now they’re kissing you back. Double the smoochiness and lipstick-wearing its pretty much down to zero.

Then there’s the period in the middle years where they don’t seem to want you to kiss them all that much, say from around the age of 9 until about 14. Oh, they’ll put up with it a little, if there is no one important around — that is, one of their friends, someone around their age, or anyone who remotely resembles a human — and you get to sneak in a good-bye kiss now and then. But by and large, during these years, kissing your offspring is over.

Then come the teen years where they seem to crave it — then abhor it on alternating days. But never, ever, kiss them and leave your lipstick behind! That’s a death sentence from a teenager, right there. They will rub their face until it’s raw rather than having something as embarrassing as Mommy Lip Residue on their cheek, forehead, or whatever part you can snag before they flee. But oh how they hug and kiss when they themselves are in need of affirmation and affection! Mama’s need to kiss ’em and show these ingrates how much she loves them? Fuggedabowdit!

The only good thing I can conclude about these many-changing periods in the life of a kissing mother is that is spreads out the cost of purchasing cosmetics. Right now, with kids at the 8, 15, and 17 levels, I’m doing a moderate amount of kissing, and thus only remember to apply lipstick every third day or so. I’ll probably make it until Spring with this tube I’m on right now.

With no female relatives either in the possession, or in the manufacturing phase, of an infant currently, I don’t envision having babies to kiss on the regular, so my lipstick-wearing will doubtless increase.

But whatever the state of my lips may be, I’m happy to report that I am the satisfied owner of a husband who allows me to kiss him whenever the mood strikes, and I don’t remember any complaints as to whether my lips be lacquered or bare. He seems to appreciate any and all affection I throw his way, irrespective of whatever the state of my war paint may be.

This is not a shameless bid for attention

Published on by NouveauSoileau3 Comments

Oh, who am I kidding. This is 2012 and this is the Internet. It’s all about the attention, baby

Today’s my birthday, and in a Facebook World that means everyone you’ve ever gazed for some unspecified minimum of time — both in actual real life and cyberspace — qualifies for Friend Status and thus wishes you Happy Birthday.

This gives you the totally misguided notion that all these people actually remember your birthday, have it marked on their Cute Kitties wall calendar, and count down the days mentally til the day they can joyously wish you feliz cumpleaños, joyeux anniversaire, or 생일.

This year is not a Significant birthday, except in  my own little mind. For it is, dear readers, the last year I can claim a “4” in the tens place, the last year before what I’ve fondly decided to call the F Word enters my life, and the last year before I am required to submit to the regular maintenance indignity perpetrated upon the American public known as the colonoscopy.

Ah, that’s a fun thing to read with your morning coffee, no?

And seriously, I do not mind growing old, for I have my own personal old fart to grow old with. He’s a decade my senior, and like most Baby Boomers, has experienced every nuance of aging long before I ever got there, and so by this time, the whole thing is old hat. Gray hair? Yes, he’s got that in abundance, and he cheerfully reminds me how ever so much grayer it is since the day he married me. Some gray hairs have crept into my coif too, but I like to think of them as cheap highlighter, and pretend that I look this way on purpose.

Today I plan to do what I do best, which is crack jokes and preside as editor of a publication. I’ve been informed there will be an departmental Birthday Lunch and I have indicated I will attend. I am wearing with wild excitement the birthday gift Mr. Gray Hair presented me with this morning, a deliciously blingie  snake rope necklace, and, as always I am clad in cowboy boots.

My children are healthy, I’ve got a roof over my head, and there are doughnuts in the world. Happy birthday to me!

What’s your point?

Published on by NouveauSoileau8 Comments

I know I’ll never be a poet. For one thing, I rarely have any deep insights that would benefit from a pithy exploration of inner psychological details, historical events, or trees.

I am, however, particularly drawn to writing headlines, coming up with puns to make even the strongest editor cry, and cracking jokes. Which makes me the perfect writer for crafting misleading descriptions of popular works of literature which intentionally miss the point.

And so today, I offer you my list inspired by the supposedly true story of a description of The Wizard of Oz which once appeared in TV Guide. It is said to have read A young girl travels to a magical land where she kills the first person that she meets, then joins with others to kill again.

To Kill a Mockingbird — Recluse reluctantly drawn into community affairs.

Jurassic Park — Entrepreneur surprised when genetic experiments go awry.

The Bonfire of the Vanities — Arrogant bond salesman arrested for murder.

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — New Yorker documents Southern bachelor’s protracted legal battle.

The Princess Bride — Improbable romance diverts recovering boy.

Of Mice and Men — Social interactions perplex mentally challenged farm worker.

Roots — Black author’s genealogy quest proves successful.

Lonesome Dove — Accidental shooting impacts Old West events. Lonesome Gus

Raising Arizona — Man finds ingenious solution to wife’s fertility problems.

The Crying Game — Romance blossoms between kindhearted IRA foot soldier and English free spirit.

A Simple Plan — Downed plane provides Minnesota couple with windfall.

My Left Foot — Handicap limits boy’s interactions with others.

The Stand — Altered virus proves remarkably efficient.

Amadeus — Institutionalized musician reflects upon colleague’s career.

The World According to Garp — Fatherless writer settles into domestic life, with mixed results.

Dangerous Liaisons — Complex coiffures, raiment provide little hindrance to promiscuity.

Cold Mountain — Walking home can take a really long time.

The Bridges of Madison County — National Geographic foots bill for randy photographer’s conquests.

O Brother Where Art Thou? — Latent musical ability discovered in trio of escaped convicts.

Girl With a Pearl Earring — Servant girl’s domestic duties interrupted by master’s whims.

I see blog people

The Sixth Sense — Hallucinations worrisome for Philadelphia youth.

Vanilla Sky — Man grapples with issues surrounding reconstructive surgery.

The Executioner’s Song — Ex-con struggles to re-enter society.

Mulan — Young Chinese girl discovers father’s armor fits her comfortably.

The Sound of Music — Austrian postulant revises career choice.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn — Arboreal nuisance achieves rapid growth in urban setting.

Back to the Future — Son seeks origin of parents’ romance.

Boogie Nights — Aspiring actor makes logical career choice.

Catch Me If You Can — Ambitious student explores several career options.

Coal Miner’s Daughter — Mountain lass marries young, moves far from home.

Escape from New York — Experimental penal colony established despite risk.

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events — Orphans persevere despite custody issues.

Saturday Night Fever — Spare-time pursuits of paint-store employee documented.

One Hundred and One Dalmatians — Societal consequences of lack of spay/neuter policy explored.

Rear Window — Shut-in occupies time between girlfriend’s visits.

The Da Vinci Code — Man offers surprising interpretation of Biblical events.

An American Werewolf in London — Injured during a trip abroad, a college student finds romance with nurse.

A werewolf and his nurse

Back to the Future — Son seeks origin of parents’ romance.

Splash — Woman from overseas adjusts to American life.

A Few Good Men — Naval official surprised by consequences of his actions.

Alien — Space voyage diverted by unexpected event.

Apollo 13 — Astronauts struggle with home, work issues.

Beetlejuice — Young couple surprised by accident’s outcome.

Total Recall — Man struggles with realization of marital betrayal.

Weed this and reap

Published on by NouveauSoileau3 Comments

This summer has been an unmitigated disaster, yard-wise. In fact, I’m pretty sure my neighborhood association is on a vicious crusade to make me feel really, really bad about myself, what with all the talk in the newsletter of “grass needs to be no more than 8 inches high” this and “don’t obscure your front windows with wild untrimmed hedges” that.

Please.

It’s not my fault the weather this year has caused an explosion of plants and weeds of nuclear, if not Biblical, proportions. Thistles as thick as my arm. Queen Anne’s Lace that I could actually use to make an epic wedding dress, including veil. Morning glories adrift in the middle of the front lawn, if you can believe that.

Hot damnI lay the blame on the super-hot temperatures we had in late June and early July. It was, honest-to-God, 105 degrees in the Fahrenheit one Saturday afternoon, and that pretty much killed any grass-like foliage I had growing both in front of and behind my house. Thus ensued Bare Spots, in which the dormant weeds, awakened by the monsoons rains which followed the HtG 105-degree weather, flourished.

My yard, ya see, until about 2003, lay in the middle of a large pasture, undeveloped and uninhabited — unless you count the gophers. They’re still here, by the way. Groundhog Central. Anyway, this pasture land, ungrazed by any animal and untended by any farmer, fostered the growth of the aforementioned thistles and Queen Anne’s Lace undisturbed for centuries. I mean, Indians trod on my wild thistleland. Cave men tripped on my morning glory’s forebears. So when the grass gave up the ghost, the dormant seeds, undeterred by a couple years’ worth of sod laid atop it, sprang forth and stormed across my lawn like conquering warlords.

Matters were made worse by the absence of my yard boy for part of the summer, who also is known in some circles as my son Christopher. He was away quite a bit, and when he returned he had to go to band camp … eyeroll … sheesh, kids these days. So despite the fact that the drought made mowing unnecessary for most of the summer, when he returned — and then vanished as a mowing entity — the weed warlords saw their opportunity and set themselves upon world domination. Er, make that the domination of my yard. This whole matter had made me think quite apocalyptically. (Is too a word.)

But he did return, and he did mow, so the pampas grassland that formerly was my back yard now has settled back into its normal state of resembling the shorn head of of marine recruit. (See photo below; scrutiny of airborne progeny and boyfriend of eldest optional.)

Up up and away!

Another interesting phenomenon is the planter on my front porch, planted with some sad petunias, some subdued greenery, and one whoppin’ big example of a forage plant.

This big thing here, which sprouted and took off during the monsoon portion of the summer’s proceedings, I believe to be an example of the millet plant. Its arrival isn’t too much of a mystery; last summer this particular flower pot sweated it out in the brutal conditions on my back deck, near the bird feeder. The untidy birds, as birds are wont to do, scattered about as much seed around the deck as they ate, some of which accumulated in the planters. Last spring I just dumped in a little fresh potting soil along with the new plants and went about my business. If some of last year’s birdseed sprouted, I just plucked it as I always do. But this whopper escaped me, and it charged out of the planter with astonishing energy, resulting in the vigorous crop of one plant you see before you today.

I find it amusing, as a peculiar addition to the wild crop of everything I’ve got growing in my yard this year. Oh I could be weeding and tidying every waking moment that I’m not working or feeding my hungry huddled masses, but something tells me it wouldn’t make a vast amount of difference. So I embrace my embarrassing yard, and the neighborhood association can just get over itself. If the apocalypse truly does come, I’ll be able to feed my family! I’ve got a crop of millet!

I wonder if morning glories are any good on toast.