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November 22nd, 1999

Cosmetics Conundrum

Happy Monday. Went to the movies on Saturday night. One of those rare evenings my husband and I can manage to pry the smaller children from our legs long enough to get to the car. Had a nice dinner and then went to see "James Bond - The World is Not Enough".

I already
did a review for this one but, for those of you who don't read my reviews, I have to say this....

"Oh my God, what are they thinking!"

I am so sick and tired of the women in these movies that are so utterly unrealistic they may as well be blow up dolls in miniskirts. And Denise Richards, if you happen to read this, I would love to know what you did that was so original above all the other nontalented T&A that you managed to get this part. A Nuclear Scientist, no doubt. And one with a penchant for skin tight T-shirts and skirts that end at the crotch line. If I had to listen to her say, "You don't need to be a nuclear scientist to figure this out." one more time, I was ready to scream.

Even the villain managed to get in some good Gucci and Prada time. ::rolling her eyes:: After all, nothing says, "Boo! I'm a scary villain but look at how cute I look in my thigh-cut evening dress!" like Prada. It was heinous.

Well, in fairness I may be jealous. I don't have anything nice anymore. I'm just a jeans kinda gal and my tennis shoes are all I ever wear.

Maybe if I invested in some Lord & Taylor frocks these kids would take me more seriously. Well, only if I slit it up to my thigh.

See you Tuesday.....Maji



I'm having a cosmetics conundrum.

When I was young and my youth was in bloom, - I bloomed once, damn it. I'm sure I did - make up was never an issue. With skin as fine as porcelain, cheeks tinged sunset pink, and lush pouty lips the color of Spring roses, I didn't need to alter myself! Why, I was just a natural beauty! (It's my dream, damn it. Let me make it as big as I want.)

And then one day I was hit with a sudden realization. Everyone around me was doing it! My girlfriends were all powdering and puffing and lining and waxing and it all seemed so terribly exciting, I just had to jump on that cosmetics bandwagon. If you're going to ask me now if they had jumped off a bridge, would I have jumped, too, my answer is yes. Only after assuming the proper accessories, that is.

The fact is, I just couldn't wait to shave my legs. And die my hair? Forget about it! I was dying my locks by the time I was old enough to hold a crayon. I've been known to use an entire box of Crayolas to obtain just the proper aesthetic effect. I actually quit coloring my hair a few years ago and was astonished when it came in naturally red. I never even knew it was that color. In its defense, however, I bet it had even forgotten it's natural shade. It had been that long.

Ladies, you know how it is. By the time I was thirteen, I longed to do all of the things that would confirm I was a woman. Not a child anymore, but a genuine lady of substance who could pluck and tweak and snap and hose. So out came the Covergirl and the Clairol, in came the Leggs and the Playtex, and "poof" went my sense of humor.

I'm liberated now. I've reached that magical age where I really don't care anymore. Well, it's either that magical age or my sanity is leaving me. Who can tell? In fact, I don't even own a scale any longer. As long as I can march along the runners in my kitchen without causing a notable dip in the floor, I'll know I'm doing my job. If I can climb in the bed and not roll my husband over by the displacement of my body, I'm just dandy. And, hey. If I dip the floor just a teeny bit, I'm usually carrying a laundry basket the size of Mount Everest. It's not my fault anyhow.

The bulk of my time I keep my hair tethered back from my head in a sloppy ponytail. No longer vain enough to require the bi-annual visit to the hairstylist, I've ceased to care. If it's not gray, I'm not rocking the boat. And, with this many kids in my house, what are the odds of actually turning gray anyway? I'm sure even the hair is afraid to appear for fear someone will abscond with it immediately and it will end up under a bed jammed in next to an old pizza box.

I know I should care. I know my husband deserves it. I should doll myself up in a prom dress and a tiara everyday but, God help me, as I scrub guinea pig urine out of the couch cushions I really don't feel like I've been invited to that party.

Maybe if those folks at Cosmo pandered a bit more to the moms of the world? You know, the ladies like me who spend their day shuttling to and from wrestling matches and staunching bloody noses with their favorite angora sweaters? We need something more realistic. Something designed for us and us alone.

Let's take a look at lipstick, for example.

"Summer's Eve Peach"

Yes, that's a mom's color. As if. What I would like to see is a lipstick in the shape of a rolling pin. And make it something we can relate to.

"Almost Dead Red"

That's more like it. And I'd like a blush that matches, too. Something like....

"Three Hours of Sleep a Night Puce"

Doesn't that sound pretty?

Maybe I'm just waxing nostalgic here. Heck, I have to wax something because I'm too tired in my everyday life to wax anything else.

All I ask is, keep it realistic. Don't forget us because we're the ones who count. Granted, only to three on our good days, and usually in the form of a threat of impending bodily damage, but we do count. So you had better give us our just rewards.

   

Unless otherwise specified, all material
Copyright 1999 by
Marijke Hildreth

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