Wrinkles are the New Black

My sister and I were on the phone this morning. She was ranting on and on about Obama’s new stimulus package. She lives in Orange County so her politics, I guess you could say, are regionally influenced. Anyway, she’s not pleased with O’s tax policies because they will directly effect her. I kept trying to remind her that O didn’t get us in this mess in the first place and that the old way of doing things didn’t work…remember, see investment statement for further proof. Anyway, there is no arguing politics with family. But there is a safe place for discussion between the two of us and I always revert to it when things get testy—The Never Ending Quest for Youth and Beauty. I live in a family of four boys so scaring up a discussion about the latest lotions, masks and fillers is pretty much useless in my house. So, when I need a little epidermal talk therapy I plug in my Bluetooth and call my sister—the skincare, plastic surgery, new non-invasive rejuvenation technology expert.

Today, after her angry rant about O in the white house, my sister and I moved onto discussing the overarching theme of recession beauty. I know I covered a bit of this in my earlier piece on recession hair but my sister reminded me that bad hair is just the tip of the iceberg. Beauty maintenance is a slippery slope, just ask any self-respecting woman in her mid-forties. Take me for instance. I have dabbled in Botox, dermabrasion and a little laser here and there, I’m not proud. Over the past three years I have indulged in about ten to twelve $300–$500 pick-me-ups. I never went in for the “no-wrinkle-Nicole Kidman-is-frightened” look but I did like a fairly wrinkle free forehead. But as my sister reminded me today “those days are over, but there are some good deals out there.” Today I looked in the mirror and all I could think was…Shar Pei face. And that’s when it occurred to me…with everyone focused on saving their homes and feeding their families maybe the pressure to look perpetually perky is off. Imagine for a moment a world where women age naturally, a universe where wrinkles, gray hair and age spots are the new black! This recession thing may not be so bad afterall.

Coraline-Horror Novella is a Big No for Ninja Boy

Last night there were three of us in our queen sized bed and we’re not the “family bed” type. Three peas in a pod wouldn’t be so bad if we were from the cast of Little People Big World http://http//tlc.discovery.com/fansites/lpbw/lpbw.html, but we aren’t. No—we’re big, hot, sweaty people.

There I was at 2am sandwiched between a 6’4” man who runs at a constant 90 degrees fahrenheit and an oversized 6 year old who burns like a wood stove. Earlier in the day I had succumbed to my son’s pleading that we go see the new movie Coraline,http://www.coraline.com/. It was President’s day and we had spent almost the entire day indoors. I thought an outing would be good for the both of us. I didn’t know much about the movie but I had heard through some vine that it was “brilliant,” though a little scary. I envisioned Toy Story, Edward Scissorhands or Bed Knobs and Broomsticks, a PG rating for inappropriate language or violent something or other. Nothing we couldn’t handle together.

Warning, Warning: If you have a child under the age of ten who is pining to see Coraline, http://www.coraline.com/…don’t, unless of course you want that child in your bed.

I will say this. The movie is incredibly creative, beautiful, silly, and clever but it is also crawl in your bed; beg for your life, disturbing—especially if you’re six years old. The good news is we didn’t see the 3-D version.

The music was haunting, the characters, while cute, were hardly likeable and the story line was terrifying at best. My son, who moonlights as a part time ninja, was so frightened that three quarters of the way through the film he got down on his knees and begged to go home and clean the gecko terrarium.

This is not your run of the mill Pixar or Disney flick. This is a haunting fairy tale that makes you want to through away the sewing kit and box of unused buttons. When I got home from the movie and settled my son, I googled the story Coraline to find out it’s origins. It was written in 2002 by British author Neil Gaiman and according to Wikipedia it is listed as a horror/novella. And, the wikepedia expert points out, Coraline sounds like “horror-wine” when you say it with a british accent. Can you say Alice in Wonderland on Acid?

Would I recommend it? Absolutely, to an adult. But for kids under ten years old….absolutely not. Coraline makes Tim Burton look like child’s play.

Was the Chinese propaganda suggestion in bad taste? Well then, here’s some bad news.

O.K., so yesterday I posted my Chinese Propaganda suggestion and no one commented. Either readers didn’t get it, they didn’t read it or they thought it was in bad taste. Now, I’m not suggesting that we start lying about our sad economic state, but I am pleading for some good down home news. Certainly there is good news out there…right? On the heels of bad news let me tell you a bad news story since that seems to be all the rage. It will have you begging for a little Mao.

On Saturday I raced to the mailbox, it was Valentine’s Day and I was half expecting a giant box from Red Envelope with diamond earrings or possibly a letter announcing I was the ten million dollar winner of the publisher’s clearing house online sweepstakes. Unfortunately all I got that day was a Happy Valentine’s Day form letter announcing a “going out of business sale” at one of our dainty neighborhood boutiques. I also got a “direct mail piece” from Washington Mutual, soon to be Chase. Anyway, in light of the dearth of diamonds, I decided to open the WAMU soon to be Chase solicitation. Thank god I did. This was no sales pitch. This was a letter advising us (that would be my husband and I) that our home equity line of credit had been closed.
The letter went on to inform that when our house was appraised its value was much higher than it is today therefore the equity against it had been closed. I was stunned. We live in one of the country’s best neighborhoods, pay our mortgage on time, volunteer at the public school, renew our license plates, buy girl scout cookies from the neighbor girl and pay for annual earthquake insurance. There was a time when every bank in the world was trying to loan us money.
Now, though this is bad news, it isn’t the end of the world for us. I use that line of credit as a cash flow source for my business; it’s an “emergency” line so to speak. But in the scheme of things, as work has slowed, it has been comforting to know that there was a fall back position. Not anymore…

I got to thinking….this is bad news. There are plenty of people out there, right or wrong, who borrowed big against their houses. These are well educated, white collar workers living beyond their means who have had the spigot suddnely cut off. What will they do when they can’t pay their mortgages and their handy emergency funds are no longer? What will happen to them? What will happen to their houses, their cars, their cleaning ladies?
Please….someone feed me a little Chinese Propaganda because I am Hungry!

Just a Little Chinese Propaganda Please

I was at a fabulous party Saturday night in the Georgetown neighborhood of South Seattle. The people were beautiful; the space was amazing and the potato soup shooters–out of this world. There were several people from the advertising industry who I hadn’t seen in years. And I must say we are all aging very well. I chalk it up to the dark, cloudy place we live in. Anyway, I ran into a business acquaintance. He and I were making jokes about this hideous recession we have all found ourselves in, (better to laugh than cry). You know what Obama needs?” he said. “He needs some serious down home, Chinese propaganda. Lie to us if you have to.” I never thought I’d agree, but he’s on to something.

Recession Hair

O.K this recession thing is killing me. It occurred to me this morning as I was blow drying my expensive lowlights and highlights that we’re apt to see some really bad hair soon. At $200 bucks a pop for a cut and color I’ll bet some women are deciding to forego the expense and turn to Clairol. I don’t know about you, but I can easily detect a salon job from a bathroom job. Usually the color is good in the front but the back looks like Halloween. I am wondering myself, as my business is slowing to a standstill, how long can I go before I have to do something about my dull roots.

When I told my husband that he should be on the look out for recession hair he asked me “Will you have bad hair if your business doesn’t pick up?” “Well,” I told him, “I will let Jan the cleaning lady go before I let Beverly the hair lady go, that’s for sure. I can stand an untidy house but I don’t think I can stomach a bad hairdo.” That’s when he offered to color my hair for me. Times are tough.

Go Big or Go Home Baby

Last weekend I was in Bend, Oregon for a girl’s getaway with my friends Chris and Nancy. At the end of the trip, and on our way to the airport to drop Nancy off, we suddenly realized we had an hour to kill. So, we did what felt natural and pulled into the local Walgreens. Nancy had been raving about the new CoverGirl All Day Lip Stain she had just bought and wanted us to see it for ourselves in the store environment. As if seeing it under the florescent retail lights would somehow prove her claims of ever lasting color.

In the store we saw the supposed life altering product and were unimpressed. It was a pair of smallish, unforgettable wands, wrapped in impenetrable plastic and surrounded by competitive brands promising their own version of perma—color. Neither Chris nor I was particularly interested in stained lips so we moved onto the more urgent section: Anti—Aging. So many promises so many products, we were mesmerized. And that’s when Chris popped the question, “How do you know what SPF to use?”

This is a question I enjoy answering because I am mole-y and white and because I go to the dermatologist at least two times a year for an overall body check. By mere heredity, association with an expert and good insurance I consider myself an authority on the topic. So, with the conviction of a junior dermatologist, I advise my olive skinned friend, “The bigger the better baby.”

My doctor has never really explained to me the difference between the 15, 30, 55, 70 or 85 ratings but I am assuming that 85 is naturally better than 30…right? But my answer isn’t good enough for Chris so she presses, “What exactly does that number mean?” Chris is a lawyer so she really likes to ask the tough questions. “Does it mean that 85% of your face is safe? Or can you be out in the blazing sun for 85 minutes? Or, does it mean you are 85 times more protected than if you didn’t wear any screen at all? Or does it mean that it all goes to hell in a hand basket at 85 dedgrees?”

“Listen missy,” I implored, “If you have ask you’re in trouble. It’s blatantly obvious; the higher number means you are less likely get skin cancer. Have you ever seen anyone with skin cancer on their face? It’s like The Elephant Man with a sun burn. Bottom line, wear the highest you can get and put it on often.” Chris rolled her eyes and headed away from me toward the vitamin isle.

Fast forward a few days.

Yesterday morning as I was preparing for a walk I pondered the sun screen choices before me in the cabinet. I had a tube of 30, 50, 70 and 85. I was going to be out for an hour under a partially sunny Seattle sky. Naturally I reached for the 85 but then wondered…is this overkill? It is after all, a little more expensive than the others and it is the dead of winter. I impulsively pulled out the 30 and lathered my face.

Luckily for me I was walking with my friend Laura who used to work for the Body Shop. Laura knows everything. She’s not one of these friends who adlibs her knowledge, as I have been known to do. When she says she knows something, it means she’s had some real life experience with the subject. So, when I asked her about the real meaning of the SPF rating she responded with the knowledge of an expert. “Take the time it takes for you to get burned. Let’s say it’s 10 minutes. If you have SPF 85 it means that your sunscreen will last eight-five times your burn rate.”

O.K., I’m no scientist but this sounds fishy. In order for that to work you would need to go out into the blazing sun with a friend who promises to hold a stopwatch to your face until you start to burn. Once you are the perfect shade of pink that same friend writes down your individual “burn time” and you have your basis from which all SPF numbers are derived at that time, on that day, in that month, in that year. Hmmmm.

When I question the method, Laura backtracks a bit, second guessing her answer. “Maybe I’m not remembering right. Maybe it’s 85 minutes past the established burn time.” I mull this over, until she closes the conversation with, “But, then again I have read that anything past SPF 30 is bogus.”

Later in the evening I ask my husband if he knows what the silly numbers are on the sunscreen bottles. And he says. “Oh yeah, it makes total sense. You multiply the number on the tube by the amount of time it takes to reach a sun saturation point. So the higher the number the longer you can stay in the sun without reapplying.” Then I ask him, “Do you know what the hell you’re talking about? And he replies, “no, but bigger is always better, right?”

Right before going to bed I decided to google The Meaning of SPF. This is what google says: The SPF indicates the time a person can be exposed to sunlight before getting sunburn with a sunscreen applied relative to the time he or she can be exposed without sunscreen.

So Chris….I am not sure I know what that means, but I would say….go big or go home baby!

Reaching My Peak on the Barcalounger

I went to the gym this morning and rode the stair stepper. I say rode because that thing takes me for a ride every time. I nearly broke my arm on it last week when I cranked up the intensity; I thought it was the volume button. I found out pretty quickly how fast my little legs would carry me.

So I guess you could say I returned to the machine to battle my demons and my bulge–sort of a two for one deal. I tried to read while I was on the thing but my eyesight is going. My fashionable reading glasses don’t work because I am too far away from the page. One time I tried to step and read with my glasses and I almost barfed up my breakfast.

When I had stepped 100 floors, got my heart rate up to 160 and burned 346 calories, I decided to move to the recumbent bike. It should be called the barcalounger bike. I love this piece of “exercise equipment” because I can hold my magazine one inch from my face and really get some reading done. Also it’s good for my ego. The only other people on the recumbents are the eighty year-olds who are barely peddling which somehow makes me feel faster, in better shape and young again.

I rode awhile and read awhile, my heart rate hovered around 90 which is better than the 65 I would achieve by laying on the couch reading. I was captivated by an article from an old soiled New Yorker I found at the bottom of a pile of magazines next to the bike. It rocked my world and I can highly recommend it to every writer over thirty out there.

The piece by Malcolm Gladwell called Late Bloomers chronicles the people who came to their craft late. It nearly saved my writing career….do I have a writing career? Robert Frost didn’t peak until he was 50ish. Alfred Hitchcock didn’t get his grove on until he was in his mid 50s. Cezanne didn’t hit it big until after he was 60.

Earlier this morning I was thinking it might be time to hang it up on the writing front and become a cafeteria lady at my son’s school or a pilates teacher at the old folks home in my neighborhood. After reading the article I have hope that I can still peak beyond the mommy years. Thank god for the barcalounger bike!