torsdag, juli 20, 2006

Don't Do the Crime if You Can't Do the Time

Whose mom came up with that one?


1. Stop by Prescriptives to get replacement bronzer. Last one.
2. Stop by Estee Lauder to get new self-tanners to test.
3. Wait for older woman to complete a purchase. She completes, but does not leave. She talks to me about Estee's old line of products, how nice they were, how much she enjoyed them when she used to go to the islands. Which islands I wonder, and is her story sad or sweet? Her dress is nice, and her hair is done, but her legs are thick and marked, an odd mix. She got the orange sun bag with purchase. Was I going to get the sunbag with purchase, she wanted to know, circling about behind me, moving to my right side as I face the counter and wait for cosmetics man with the pierced eyebrow to return my card. No, I explain, not wanting to offend. It doesn't have a zipper close. I am kind of scatterbrained. I need a zipper close. I look at her. We smile. She leaves.
4. I continue to wait for the eyebrow man, thinking of the woman, feeling an unidentifiable pang, some mixture of I should be her friend, I hope her life isn't empty, am I looking at my future, and so on.
5. With utmost approval (I knew enough to ask for the lotion and the complementing spray without being told), he hands me my card and overpriced vanity collection.
6. I turn to the right to collect my Prescriptives purchase from the make-up chair next to me.
7. It's gone.

torsdag, juli 13, 2006

Notes from the Dictaphone

Every trip we take starts with the same ritual: a call to American Passport Express and the writing of several large checks. We are on file. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Berlin. Which child this year?" the man on the other end of the phone asks. "I love you guys," I say. And its true.

Givenchy jewelry for something pretty and inexpensive.

In honor of a a visiting dog, Edit cleaned the house with Windex and covered the glass coffee table with an Incredibles fleece blanket so we humans wouldn't mess it up.

The oldest has decided to add anorexia to the list of summer activities. She can't quite finish a whole sandwich at a restaurant, so the balance comes home in styrofoam and rests on a refrigerator shelf. Three days later, the middle child asks to finish it. I authorize with a "Sure. I guess." The oldest notices the next day and throws a tantrum: "Who ate my sandwich. You know that there are very few things that I can eat!" Actually, I didn't know that but now I am on notice that three-day old take-out is on the "Yes" list. Then I took off some nail polish and made the mistake of throwing into the bathroom garbage the used remover pad. She bent down, picked it up and rinsed it off, instructing me to do the same in the future Apparently OCD includes taking the time to wash the garbage.

"You are going to buy white pants for your six year old?"
Well, um, yes. Yes I am because I live in a fantasy world of Ralph Lauren print ads.
"Well, I know how your husband would come down on this one. He would agree with me. White on a six year old is just a bad idea."
Forget prepubescent couture, let's get back to when exactly did you start picking my husband for your team.

"That mother/daughter set was so bizarre, they made us look normal, Mom."

"Why don't you want to go play paintball with us? It'll be fun. You like competition; you'll get into it."
"Don't get me wrong, but I don't really think of cars and guns as sports."

Am I the only one who hates "The Safe Side of the Sidewalk"song by Kelly Clarkson?

My recommedation for this year's family vacation was horseback riding through the Mounument Valley canyons of Utah and Arizona. My husband assured me that most of us would die of hunger and dehydration and wondered if we couldn't we pick a time other than the middle of summer to visit the desert. How could we die? Is there a place in the northern half of the western hemisphere where construction companies haven't built a home for Chuck E' Cheese?

Intermittant Explosive Disorder, aka Road Rage, Spousal Abuse, and Homicidal Tendencies. I remember once misjudging how fast a car was driving. I pulled out a bit too close in front of a car going the other way, and barely missed him. The 50-something driver did a bat turn then came after me, trailing me for ten miles before I pulled - for safety sake - into my brother's driveway. He got out of his car to lecture me. I had a defense, sort of. They had recently increased the speed limit there, it was dark, and I miscalculated just how fast he was going. After he left, natch, I came up with: "How long do you think your heart is going to take this? You'll die of a heart attack sooner than a road accident." I wonder if that remark would be more effective than, "Take it easy, buddy," "Hey! It was more your fault!" or "If you have this much time to follow a girl around, then how come you were going so fast?"

The Puma sneaker was the first brand anything I had as a kid. I wore them out on the basketball court. No, that's not right. They wore me. I sucked at basketball. I just couldn't tolerate all those people in my face that I could not (1) hit or (2) grab the ball and run away from. No air, no support, no arch - just a piece of cloth, a sole, shoelaces, and the cat. The new designer retro Pumas feel the same, only I'm not buying them for basketball. I am buying them to walk into the gym and hear, "Wow. Those are so cool."

I am stuck in traffic jam with a mug of coffee and a box of office doughnuts. What kind of torture is this? The donuts are just, there, sitting next to me. They should probably be belted.

My daughter wanted one of these words to hang in her dorm room. I was ok with the fact that the artists enjoy a vibrant decorating scheme. Heck, cookie cutter is so tedious. But Whimzee Twinz? Unless they really are twins, that's creepy.

I like Michelle DaRin's jewelry because it is more like art. It is vibrant and fluid and out of the ordinary. And should be hung on a wall. How can anyone wear it and breathe? I would fidget with it until my fingers moved to the back of the clip and work the piece off of my neck onto the desk and where it would meet an untimely death under a stack of papers.

I volunteered to go with the kindergarten class to a local farm. I hate farms, by the way, but I went anyway because I figured of all the city kids' parents, I was probably the most familiar with farms. When I was 10 years old my parents moved us from Cleveland - a mulitcultural section full of neighbors and friends and walking-to-school distances - to another state and another state of mind. I remember arriving at the new house in the middle of the night. The next morning I woke up to see a deer and a dairy farm out my bedroom window. On the other side of the house was another dairy farm. I have never forgiven my parents. Never.

Where was I? Oh, right, the field trip. I thought I might be able to make sure that none of the kids get bitten or kicked, keep them from falling into dung or puddles of urine, and teach them that farm dogs and pretty swans are never to be trusted and chickens are too stupid to bother with. I mean, does anybody really think that a pony is easy to look at? They are dwarf horses, and, forgive me for I know I am not being sensitive here, I only like the full grown horses. The regular kind. And what kind of hobby is a rabbit? More work than a doll collection, but not much more interaction. We also took a hay ride along a country road, which gave us the slow motion view of people's yards festooned with all the things I hate about the country, like old conversion vans with for sale signs, plastic lawn chairs, ceramic deer, and cheery bunny front door decorations. Frankly, I don't think anyone's front yard needs more decoration that what you can't get by nature. Trees, grass, stones, and flowers. Nothin' storebought, thank you.

What valuable lesson did we learn from the farm? Pigs roll in the mud because they can't fetch the sunscreen from the bathroom counter. Certain lambs are just for eating, and that's the kind we were looking at. We never say "poop"; only "manure" and don't touch the mommy goat. That was fun.

Me: Seems the recorder was left on in my bag. I have a lot of me walking around in the house. god it sounds like a tomb. sorry. recorder all better now.
He: It goes like this, "Where are my keys? Have you seen my keys? Put that down. What are you doing? Stop that. Leave me alone. Here. Here, watch tv." (Sound of cork pulled from bottle)"

I'd like to buy into the minidress scene, but first I have to buy into a butt lift. Damn.