The Lipstick Challenge

I did it! Sort of.

I was just one day shy of my challenge to go three months without buying a new lipstick.

These past few months, I forced myself to shop my makeup drawer. I shuffled through all 76 tubes (and that’s after I gave the duplicates – I always buy 2 - to my hairdresser with the same addiction as me). I even tried standing them upright to look more like a store. Testing them on my hand. They were all just ok.

Nothing gave me a that lift I got when I shopped for a new nude pink on display under shiny lighting, music playing in the background and a salesperson to dote on the big decision. “What do you think?” I’d ask.

The fresh new look on my lips lasted, at best, a week. Then, I was back at it again - my quest for the holy grail of nude pinks.

During this time, I found myself stopping into Sephora and circling the displays like a shark to prey. But I didn’t pounce. Instead, I would call Hank.

On my computer, the Google sidebar, hip to my previous searches, would slide in, touting Charlotte Tilbury’s latest nude pink lipsticks. Dangle. Dangle. I know your addiction…I zeroed in. “Hot Lips Penelope Pink.”  Yum. Dare I?

Nope. I clicked on the “x” and went back to work.

Then, a month ago I almost fell off the wagon. In a weak moment after the end of a stressful day, I found myself at the lipstick counter eyeing the latest “Liquid Nude Pink.”

I took a breath. Who’s going to know?

“I’ll take one of these,” I said, lifting the clear plastic tube out of the sample display at Nordstrom.

I glanced around like a cautious thief as the saleswoman rifled through the drawer below.

She popped up and straightened her skirt. “We’re out of it but I can have it sent. Just takes a few days. No shipping!”

I’m going to know, I thought, that’s who. “No thank you,” I said.

I was almost to the finish line this past Sunday when I landed in Bloomingdale’s seeking to soothe myself. It had been one of those weeks and what better fix than the department store, right?

There I was, right in front of Lancôme. A pretty young salesgirl with a thick Russian accent approached me.

I was practically breathless. “Nude pink.”

She furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Sorry. Does Lancôme have a good nude pink?”

“Natural? Perhaps with a little coral?”

“Yes. Yes.” I began to perspire.

“Here,” she said handing me #232.

It was perfect. Awww. Just the perfect pink.  

“I’ll walk around now,” I told her, “and see if it’s the right shade.”

Then, I called my lifeline.

“What’s Up?” My husband, Hank asked.

“Help, I’m at Bloomingdale’s in lipsticks.”

“Leave,” he said. “Go somewhere else.”

“Ok, I’m walking over to handbags. I saw a gorgeous Burberry on the way in.”

“No!” he laughed. “Not there!”

The next four days I “visited” #232 at Sephora late in the afternoon. I’d tried it on. Didn’t buy it. Just tried it on.

Yesterday, with only one more day to survive the challenge, I stopped in to visit my lipstick. I looked at the name on the tube. “In Love.”

I bought it. One day shy…

But, I didn’t wear it. I wrapped it.

Because three months ago, I thought on the 25^th of August I’d be at the Bobbie Brown counter whooping it up. Piling on the pinks.

Instead, I was with Hank, out to breakfast presenting him with the wrapped box.

“Uh oh,” he said, grabbing his phone to check the date. “What have I forgotten? What’s the date?”

“Stop,” I told him. “Just open the box.”

He slipped the ribbon off and burst out laughing when he saw the lipstick. “I thought it was tomorrow!”

“Read the label,” I said.

He turned it around like a foreign object in his hands. “Rouge in Love.”

“You see, Hank,” I told him. “Instead of turning to the lipstick counter, I’m learning to turn to you.”  

Grandma Jo

It's 9:30am and my mother-in-law, Jo, is in the kitchen. She's asked me to call her, again, on her cell phone, after my husband, Hank, downloaded Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody for her ring tone. She wants to hear it again.

I call her. She hums along, then, returns to the orange juice maker. The whirring starts up again. “Orange juice, anyone?”

Is she for real?

Yes. This is my octogenarian mother-in-law of sound mind, who embraces the wrinkles on her face with a dusting of light make-up. Her grey hair is femininely cropped and laced with white.  She wears skinny jeans and tailored shirts. “Tucked in!” My mom says in awe. “She tucks everything in and wears a belt!”

We are on our annual summer trip with Jo in Newport Beach, where she rents a beach house. Our adult children drop in and out depending on their work schedules. They bring with them a slew of their friends who enjoy the surf. The action never stops and Jo is right in the middle of it taking pictures. Everyone affectionately calls her “Grandma Jo,” whether they’re related or not.

But this is no ordinary grandma. 

Jo is eighty-eight going on twenty-two. She’s Internet savvy. She’s on Instagram and often drives two hours just to to be with her grandchildren or to visit her friends in Los Angeles. She’s well read and current on all the latest news.

“How’s Jo doing?” Mom asks when I checked in earlier today on the phone.

“Unbelievable,” I say.

“I hate her,” Mom laughs. “She leaps and dives and runs around. It’s all that Christian Science clean living. She never drank or smoked like me.”

“You had fun, Mom.”

“Sure did. But I’m paying for it now.” Again, she laughs. “And I have no regrets.”

I can hear Jo getting out the cast iron skillet. She’s making her “crispy eggs.” Hank’s favorite.

As soon as that’s served up, she’s making a list for the market and wiping down the counter. I look over at Hank. “You are so lucky. Your mother never ages.”

Jo’s attitude is what keeps her young. She doesn’t resist change. Yet, Jo’s the consummate lady. She’s all about good grammar and napkins in the lap, but can talk surf and navigate a complicated television remote like a pro.

A widow of twenty-two years, Jo has created a full life for herself in Santa Barbara in the home where she has lived for thirty-two years.

My mother-in–law’s i-phone dings as she heads toward the laundry room.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s Ann and Susie (her daughters) figuring out what to bring down here and wanting to know what I need.”

Unreal. My eighty-eight year-old mother-in-law does group chat texting on WhatsApp...

Jo has told me to make sure to tell her if I see a spot on her clothes. “It reminds me of my mother’s friend, Alma. She had spots all over her clothes when she got old. Don’t let that happen to me.”

I promised her that I would, but doubt it will ever be an issue.

Like her grown children, I have become accustomed to her vitality and agelessness. I think nothing of her traipsing up the beach with our son, Joe, after watching him surf for two hours.  Or reading the instructions for Hank’s new drone.

The kitchen is tidy now and Jo bustles about the beach house, moving up and down the steep spiral staircase, wearing her favorite fresh white Converse sneakers - her shoes of choice - with jeans and a crew neck sweater. Her late mother’s gold “S” chain (that she never takes off) catches the light from the large picture window.

After I’d called her cell phone this morning so that she could hear Queen’s tune again, she told me that she wants a Christian Science Hymn, The Lord’s Prayer, and Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody played at her memorial when the time comes.

Somehow, I’m not too worried about that just yet.

Night Thoughts

Yesterday, my twenty-seven year-old son, Joseph, sent me his upcoming itinerary to South Africa and Malawi. Joe’s doing another documentary and this will be his fifth trip back to a continent with stories that seem to call out to him to film.

Of course, this lead to my being awake at 2:15am tossing and turning, worrying about his trip, him being there a month, some of the sketchy places where he will be filming. I know he knows what he’s doing, but I’m his mother. And a mother always worries…

As the clock turned to 3am straight-up, I was reminded of my mother’s sage words the night before I had my first child thirty-four years ago:  “Sleep well, Heather, because this will be your last night of good sleep for the rest of your life.”

Swell, I thought.

Would I feel more comfortable with Joseph working a 9-to-5? Probably. But, that’s not going to happen. Really, it’s all about his passions and goals – not my comfort. And are there any “safe” places anymore? He’s an adult. It’s out of my hands. “This is the goal,” a friend once said to me “to raise them to be independent.”

Sometime around 3:20, I thought about all those other mothers out there with sleepless nights. Those brave mothers with adult children in the armed forces…the police force…an adult son or daughter walking the beams of a high-rise under construction…mothers whose children are journalists and photographers in war-torn areas.

Then, I turned to one of my calming prayers. That didn't seem to do the trick.

At 4:05, I debated just getting up, as I ticked through the details of Joe’s itinerary as if that would give me some peace.  It only made it worse. What if this? What if that?

What did give me peace were the words of James A. Garfield.

       Light itself is a great corrective. A thousand wrongs and abuses that are grown in

                         darkness disappear like owls and bats before the light of day.

At 6am, I rose and padded through the house to my computer in the sunroom. I reread Joe’s itinerary.

        “I’m excited,” he’d written. I could feel the energy he gets when he is doing what propels him.

        “And, so am I for you…” I typed, then, pressed send.

Found this doodle on the notepad by the kitchen telephone after Joe stopped by the other day.

Love Was in the Air

My husband, Hank, and I are still doing SoulCycle together on the weekends. We’ve hung in there with our “together” hobby. I tease him, though, that I’ve created a monster. He likes to leave early to get there, and makes sure we get signed up for class for the coming week.

Hank’s more social than I.  He’s a joiner. Loves to work the room. Loves group anything. Knows the names of most the staff and instructors where we ride. He’s all set up and ready to ride when I’m the last to hop on the bike.

Last Friday, Hank had signed us up for a 5 o’clock afternoon ride. It was hotter than the hubs of hell outside.  I’d just read about the latest senseless shooting, in a Munich Mall, and a fire had broken out in Santa Clarita sending up plumes of smoke and painting the sky with an eerie look of doomsday.

We’d just returned hours before from Ojai and the last thing I wanted to do was a 90-minute spin ride with a DJ.

The only thing compelling me was what Hank, in the know around there, advised me of what was to happen after the class.  “Ok, this is pretty special.” I agreed to go.

The class was packed. The energy was on high and the DJ was in full throttle. We all knew what was up. All, except one of the two instructors on the podium.

I kept my eye on the door as the class neared the end. I’m sure everyone was, in anticipation. The door burst open with a throng of well-wishing regular attendees crowding into the room with cell phones, raised above, to capture the moment.

The male instructor on the podium, his legs slowing for the cool down, looked around quizzically. “What’s going on!!?”

The crowd parted and in came his partner.  The instructor’s smile grew wider. “Why are you here!!?”

His partner went to the podium. The room fell silent. “A year ago, I felt as if the world had fallen out from under me. And, then,” he looked at his partner, “I met this man and fell in love.”

From there, he spoke eloquently for a few minutes of their relationship. He looked at his love. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said. Then, he proposed marriage.

Whoops of cheer rose from the crowded room as he presented him with a ring.  There were true tears of joy for the couple. Such emotion. Such devotion. Such love. They clearly had found each other.

Chris was overwhelmed, excited, and so, so happy. “Yes! Yes!”

The other instructor had Chris’ mother on the i-phone to witness the proposal and handed Chris the phone.  “Mom! Mom! Look,” he said, pointing to his partner. “Meet your new son!”

The only other engagement I’d experienced was my own. To see a couple so in love, so ready for commitment…A commitment that is their right as loving adult human beings.

I forgot about being tired. The heat. The fire. Munich. Because for that moment, it reminded me, as do so many things, that love is still alive and well.

And, love is moving forward.

The Stitch that Binds

On Fridays I work at Hodge Podge in San Marino. It’s a gift store connected to A Stitch in Time – a needlepoint shop. http://www.needlepoint-knitting.com

Before I started working there eight years ago, I took up a needlepoint project just to “sit at the table.” That’s where all the action takes place.

The women who gather here are all about celebrating the milestones with their craft, whether it’s a Christmas stocking for a new member of their family, a wedding ring-bearer pillow, or a simple tree ornament.

Needlepointing for the holidays is big. Halloween pumpkins, the winter stand-up villages, Easter Eggs, Menorahs, 4^th of July pillows…

This Friday, a needlepoint class is going on, led by a guest teacher from Kentucky whose southern charm is infectious. “When in doubt,” she tells a student with a lilt, “Ah always use the basket-weave stitch.” The tables are littered with canvases, threads, reading glasses and stitch guides. It’s noon and the bright-colored chairs are empty. The class is taking a lunch break at Tony’s down the street.

There’s a knitting group up on the table at the back of the shop. Normally, they are up front at the large table to the left. Yet, the knitting table is bustling this morning…baby sweaters, a blanket for someone in need, a long scarf - more gifts made with yarn.

The knitting teacher is encouraging. “You’re doing great,” I hear her say to a woman frustrated with a complicated pattern.

Over in “Hodge,” the gift section, I open a box of new gift items to be priced when my phone dings another Breaking News Alert. I don’t want to look down. It’s all been so much lately. I’m still back in Orlando trying to absorb that when more mass shootings have since occurred. 

My mind retreats back into the store and I glance across to the wall of needlepoint canvases. Pastoral scenes, beach themes, animals, flowers… Shelves to the right are bursting with soft, color-coordinated yarns.

A regular customer walks through the door with her finished still life – a project she’s framed after working with our resident needlepoint teacher. Everyone in the shop takes a look.  There are lots of oohs and ahhs. The customer is beaming.

In the background, the female DJ on the soft rock channel is talking about wanting to just get away from Facebook, Twitter…the whole thing, she says. “Lately, it’s been too much. The violence these days. It's everywhere. I need a break.”

Indeed, it’s a complicated world. But, some things do stand the test of time and the Internet.

Through world wars, revolutions and through good times, women have gathered together in a community to knit or to needlepoint. Crafting handiwork that seems no matter what, survives the test of time. Looking forward to the future. A new baby. A wedding, a holiday, or just to have something beautiful to admire.