In no particular order:

1. Fixin’ the hair.

2. Some very old-school wall stickers.

3. Myth: bathrooms are best painted pink, to flatter skin tones. I believe it.

4. This is one of my doodles. She’s a costume designer. See more here.

5. Should I wear black and white, or black and white, or black and white?

Primping for the Make-Believe Fancy Dress Ball

Photography by: Andria Lo

Primp is a selection of images taken by photographer Andria Lo, which show young women dressing themselves up for the Comic Con International + Anime Overdose in California last year. Andria says of her project that costumes and costume-play are a major part of the world of comics conventions. They seem to distract from the introversion of the hobby. While attending one of these events, she was struck by the outrageous costumes and fascinated by how they could be completely re-contextualized in private settings. Strangely enough, with the exhibitionist element removed, the costumed are even more of a spectacle.

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Last night, I took Tim to the airport and then made an impromptu stop and bought lipstick, fake eyelashes and chip proof fake nails – french manicure style.  I put on the lipstick on the way home to see how it looked.

I liked it.

What is it about being alone and then the prospect of seeing Tim again make me want to knock his socks off?

My original plan (before the stop) was to pack for my London departure and make a list of things to do while alone in London…but instead I decided to put on the fake nails.  They looked so EASY.  I matched up the sizes with each of my nails, set them all out in the order of my fingers so I wouldn’t glue the middle finger size to the ring finger size…and picked up the glue.  I was a good girl and followed directions.  I put glue on my nail AND on the fake nail first….and tried to put a fake, french manicured nail on my pinky finger.

I  glued my thumb and pointer finger together.  I freaked out and tried to pry them apart and watched my skin stretch in painful resistance to the glue.  They eventually unstuck and I had glue residue all over my hands.  This was my first clue that this was a bad idea.

But I kept going.  Nail after nail.

Second clue: air bubbles between the fake and real nail and NOT FLATTERING. I reasoned that maybe it wouldn’t be all that noticeable.

I kept going.    All ten nails.

THEN I got outside in the natural light and it looked like my fingers were starting to sprout some sort of fungus underneath the nail bed AND I had somehow chipped the “chip proof” fake nail.  All in five minutes of having them.

I decided this was NOT the way to impress anyone and made a mad rush to the computer and typed “how to remove fake nails” and about five minutes of reading, led me to throw on some shoes and run out to the grocery store to get acetone.

So instead of being productive, I spent the evening soaking my hands in acetone and prying off nails I JUST PUT ON about thirty minutes before.  I love how it only takes mere moments to put them on and HOURS to get them off.  I still have pieces of the fake nails stuck to my real ones…

I think I told myself the last time this happened to never do that again.

And I did it.

Again.

Lies, Lies....

Consider yourself an honest person? Well, bully for you. That’s a very fine quality in a person – especially in a person who meets me, since I can typically spot a liar at twenty paces – moreover, I myself never lie as a general rule, since I have a memory like a broken sieve. To lie would be to deliberately place myself in harm’s way, since I would trip myself up too easily.

Did I say Greece? I meant Ireland. Yeah, that’s right. I was in IRELAND last Thursday. THAT’S why I couldn’t make your party. Yeah, big bagpipe convention. What… oh, yeah, I mean SCOTLAND.

See? I SUCK at lying. No, wait, that’s a lie right there. I’m actually a stellar liar; I could make you believe you were an alien from space, if I really wanted to, but I’m a sucky rememberer. You’d come to me, later, all wrapped in tinfoil, and when I laughed at you, you’d go all crestfallen on me: “But… but… you said…”

Then I’d remember and go: “Oh, yeah, Andromeda Galaxy, that’s right. Whoops. Eh-heh…”

HOWEVER (I’m also a terrific digresser) to get to the main point here: SOMETIMES, it’s important to LIE. Because the worst kind of mean-hearted bully is the kind who tries to use “honesty” to hurt other people, to wit:

“I’m just being honest here. You DO look fat.”

Now come on. Is that EVER necessary? No. Lie, people, lie your asses off. If some friend of yours is stuffed into something that makes them look like Jones Pork Sausage, what the hey? They’re already out and dressed. It can’t be helped now. What they need NOW is CONFIDENCE to pull off the look.

Lies, delivered in the spirit of loving dishonesty, do just that.

#1 Your Haircut Looks Great.

Even if you can barely look without flinching, even if your eyeballs start to tear, you MUST manage this, because hair only grows so fast, and your friend/acquaintance/boss/mother now must live with this horror for at least a few long and terrible weeks.

“Is it bad?”

“NOOOOOOhhhhh,” is your answer, as enthusiastically as possible. Add a little primping touch of the hand, as if you can’t resist the touch of the prickly mess, if you can bear it. “It’s terrific. Only YOU could pull it off. It suits you so well!”

#2 No, it SO wasn’t you, it was them!

Your friend is devastated by the loss of a significant other. Perhaps, you, who have followed the drama and the saga, know for a fact that his or her giant chasm of need DID in fact, drive the poor bastard away screaming and babbling incoherently.

NOW is not the time for a personality review.

BAD: “Yeah, sweetie, it WAS you. Poor schmuck couldn’t take you following him to work, calling his cell every ten minutes, texting him every five, I mean, think about it, hon.”

GOOD: “Sweetie, he didn’t deserve you. You’re better off without him. Here: have another pint of Chunky Monkey.”

Later, perhaps, you can suggest counseling, or a good lawyer to deal with the Order of Protection.

#3 How old do I look?

Hang on, here, I have to stop laughing so I can type. Do I really need to spell this out for you folks? Is there anyone out there who really thinks they get some kind of cosmic points for guessing RIGHT?

I’ve seen this – mostly guys – smiling, as if someone’s going to hand them a fluffy carnival toy when they see a woman’s mouth drop open. “I got it, didn’t I? I’m right, aren’t I? You’re 40.”

I have actually said to guys that have done this: “Asshole.”

They’re completely oblivious to the idea that the woman with the mouth agape is struggling NOT to knock the block off the self-satisfied jackass.

Two very good rules to follow here.

Number one: refuse to guess. Claim it’s a policy of yours. This is, in fact, the safest way to go, and if you have the balls to ride it out, you’re good to go. 

Number two:
Part A: If, say, an obviously 50-ish person asks (and stupid, by the way, to ask in the first place), don’t be stupider and say “21.” Why is this stupid? Because it’s so clearly not true, it makes them think YOU think they’re SO old that you have to guess WAY too young to flatter them. It ends up insulting.

Hey – I didn’t say it made sense. I’m just giving you the skinny on how people think.

Part B: Instead, if you think you’re ANY good at guessing – and you best be DAMN good at guessing – take THAT age, and subtract 10-15.

THAT will make it seem real that you guessed wrong – and way under.

The very BEST way to flatter people about their age? If and when they mention the ages of their children, look SHOCKED and say: “I can’t believe you have kids that age. You don’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

That’s believable – and flattering. And it comes up naturally in conversation, and can make somebody’s DAY.

# 4. You’re right.

My grandfather used to say: “A man convinced against his will remains of the same opinion still.”

It’s up to you, here, folks, but personally? I don’t give a rat’s ass about whether most people KNOW I’m right, as long as I do.

For instance: you come across some hardcore goofball on the sidewalk – maybe wearing a sandwich board, proclaiming that he’s a taco.

You know, of course, that he is NOT a taco. Tacos, for those who do not know, don’t have faces, for one thing. Neither do they argue on streetcorners.

Believe it or not, there are some people who will waste valuable moments of their lives they will never get back, trying to convince the buffoon that he is, in fact, NOT a taco, but actually a living human being, and inedible for the most part, outside of a few cannibalistic rainforest dwellers. (Who probably will not wrap him in Mexican breadlike outer coatings and hot sauce.)

Why bother? You KNOW you’re right, he’s wrong, go on your merry way.

It’s so totally okay to be right and have no one know it but you. Even if said Taco Dude has a band of merry Taco Followers mocking you, calling you Dufus. Shrug, and move on to the next street corner, where perhaps you’ll find someone who thinks they’re a hamburger.

#5 This is delicious.

Even if what you’re served tastes like Dog Turd Pudding (see earlier post), if you’ve been the lucky recipient of free food and the free hospitality at someone’s home, however humble, you are unfortunately obliged to eat it.

Tip: your olfactory sense – that is, your nose – is connected to your taste buds. So if you can’t smell, you can’t taste. So breathe through your mouth and choke the Cream of Whatever down. Somehow.

BONUS LIE:

“Everything is going to be all right.”

Actually, this one isn’t a lie. My grandmother – the wife of previously mentioned grandfather – had a good saying, too: “Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” So: no matter what ever happens to you, no matter how shitty, everything DOES end up all right in the end. The wheel turns, and daylight breaks again. So this one, once the cosmic shit storm passes, is the truth.

Keep it in mind. 

OK…they don’t say that you have to “kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince” for nothing. But I seem to be in a lily pad jumping marathon here.

Most recently I learned that I should forgo the lunch date for something either fun or very nice. That way I wouldn’t mind primping for a couple of hours. But if someone wants to start off with a lunch date, they’re gonna get a chick dressed for lunch.

Yesterday I wondered, “If a guy asks you out at the last minute, are you still obliged to offer him a “first date” primp job? I hadn’t figured it out yet and I was getting sort of curious because I had another last minute date and I really hate primping. And…he DID sort of spring it on me…so I figured, “Screw him. He gets what he gets.”

I think that’s fair, don’t you? The guy wants a cheap date, he’s gonna get one. If he took me to Paris (Which, by the way, is specifically what I requested.), he would most likely get his own new dress. But, lunch on the Marietta Square is gonna get most guys a pair of old blue jeans and a sweater. Oh, I’m probably not going to go too far out there with my hair, either. I think for the time being, lunch dates will be getting braids.

I used to go all curling iron on a date but I give up. I’ve gotten more compliments from men who like braids than I ever did with curls. They also like cheap shoes and things with lots of colors. So, you should be a little creative on a lunch date…but I wouldn’t get out my Estee Lauder make-up for it.

It’s not like we’re going to Churchill Downs in May. Heck, for all I know, we could end up at McDonald’s Land. After all, guys call audibles too.

I hate to be on the receiving end of an audible, don’t you? You have to spend the rest of the date knowing that the other person doesn’t want to go on the big date you guys had discussed and most likely would rather be anywhere else but with you at that moment.

The last time that happened to me, I could pick up on it within 48 seconds. I’m very perceptive and that wasn’t tough to pick up on. Before I even saw the guy look at me, he had stopped looking at me. That was fun.

I tried very hard to make pleasant conversation, all the time knowing that if he had waited until I had time to primp and dress up nicely, he wouldn’t look so forlorn right then.

Looking back those awkward silences were rather amusing. They were the type of things that aren’t amusing when they happen but when you look back on it, it sort of makes you chortle.

I think that we women and men should have a built in, ready made way to overcome uncomfortable silences. We should take turns breaking them. I broke far too many that time…when I could have just as easily shut up and let him deal with being ill at ease. Actually, I think I’ll do that next time! I’ll just let the fool think about what a DREADFUL uncomfortable silence he is currently stuck in. And sooner or later I’ll just laugh out loud uncontrollably because that’s what I do.

I think the trick to enjoying uncomfortable silences is to know when you are wasting your time trying to be pleasant. Just in case you don’t know, here are a few signs that your date has “called an audible” on you:

1. Within two minutes of picking you up he says, “Today was an unusually BUSY and HECTIC day at work.” He’s setting up his escape and you’re still putting the seat belt on. Not a good sign.

2. He orders soup. You might just as well order soup too. You won’t have the time to finish a burger, much less fries.

3. He watches the game on the TV over by the bar…and it’s just a rerun of a Japanese baseball game.

4. He spends more time looking at the decor than he does looking at you. And then, to make matter worse, he actually begins to discuss the decor.

5. It occurs to you that you could flash the dude and he’d never notice.

Any one of those would do it but I got all of them on one hour long lunch date.

Yep, those are just a few of the signs that it’s time to become responsible for your own fun. I’m going to have a plan from now on. I pity the next guy who isn’t captivated by me!

My dark brown hair has recently been invaded by more and more grey. I used to just pull the noticeable ones out, but ever since we had to watch a documentary on trichotillomania in one of my psych. classes, I have an aversion to even the most subtle hair pulling (“pulling out” I should say- I still like hair pulling). Also, I’ve been growing out my hair for months and now I can finally wear it up, but this also makes the grey more noticeable. I never thought grey hair would bother me much, but I have to say, I’ve been bothered. I mean I love when older women have natural, long and flowing grey hair- I find it really beautiful. But I’m 29 and I guess I’m not at that point yet myself.

As I was deciding whether or not to dye my hair over the last couple of weeks, many thoughts came to mind. Am I being vain? Why is something this insignificant affecting my self-esteem? Am I in some kind of denial about aging? Am I conforming to sexist beauty standards? I could go on, but you get the picture. On a more positive note, I thought the grey made me look older and being that I’m going to be a therapist (and I look quite young), this could be a good thing. I’ll ruin the surprise ending, I bit the bullet and did it and I’m quite happy with it. I paid my trusted hair boy more than I would have liked, but now my hair is a pretty deep brown with reddish undertones. He also put some lighter pieces in my bangs to “create depth.”

I did it yesterday and met up with some friends last night for cocktails and dinner and was talking about it with one of the butches in attendance. I was explaining about how the grey was bothering me and she said something to effect of, “well yeah and you’re a femme”, i.e.- better keep up appearances. Now she’s one of the sweetest people I know and I’m sure she wasn’t trying to be a jerk, but it caught me a bit off guard. In the same way that grey hair on men is viewed as a mark of distinction, does the same apply to butches…and not femmes? Are we expected to do more to remain attractive? Not that I don’t enjoy the “doing more”- I get expensive haircuts, go to the gym, get pedicures, buy new clothes and perfume. But I guess it’s the idea that there’s an expectation that bothers me. But is it really an expectation in the queer community- specifically the butch/femme community? What do other people think?

Also, this isn’t to say that butches (or the butches I typically like) don’t engage in a certain amount of primping- sexy barbershop haircuts, jackets and ties, cologne, etc., but femme primping seems more expensive and time consuming. Am I wrong butches? I don’t know what you fellas do when we’re not there. All that being said, I feel good without the grey and wish I did it even sooner. Maybe I’ll have long grey hair one day (and totally rock it), but not today.

Men are now wearing makeup. Even men want to know how to get the closest shave possible and about massage oils that can help them relax after that strenuous workout. According to a well known cosmetics buyer, although there have always been men who have taken great care of their appearance, the strategy is to now appeal to the wider, men’s market – in particular to young men – a market that drives most of the growth in this industry.

Don’t be surprised if very soon your toiletry kit contains not only shaving cream, deodorant and toothpaste, but concealer, oil-absorbing face powder and brow gel. The men’s market is particularly tempting to large cosmetics companies, which have seen sales at department stores plateau in recent years. Although still a niche market, retailers say men’s cosmetics can only grow, given an aging population with the money and motivation to keep their youthful looks.

That’s because guys are relying on an increasing number of made-for-men products like these to put their best face forward. guys have gone from secretly filching some of their girlfriends’ moisturizers, to owning enough beauty products to make most drag queens blush.

So are we ready to embrace makeup on men? After all, the Beatles’ longish hair was once considered an affront to modest ’60s sensibilities. Or will men’s makeup go the route of the men’s skirt trend circa 2003 that never quite took off?

The purpose of wearing face makeup, like cover-up and powder, is to hide blemishes. If you have perfect skin, I envy you and you can skip this and the next paragraph and go straight to nail polish, lucky jerk .

Well-known cosmetic empires along with the smaller, up and comers are introducing skin care, fragrance and even makeup product lines targeted to men who have a penchant for primping.

Many male celebrities, actors, and models sit in a makeup chair before making a public appearance. It’s no surprise that with modern society’s emphasis on youth, perfection, and physical attraction, women aren’t the only ones who want to accentuate their best facial features and hide blemishes and scars. Makeup for men is one of these double-edged things for women – yes, we would like men to look better, but how far do we want them to go, and do we want to know exactly how they got there?

Even in the metro age, dabbing concealer on a blemish is seen as an emasculating activity. American ambivalence about men’s makeup seems to run pretty deep, as GQ fashion editor Brian Coats can attest, “I just think it can be a scary thing for guys to wear makeup. I kind of understand that.” Coats believes makeup on men is not a good idea for the general population. “A guy should look like a guy. I think in general, guys just look better natural.”

To reduce blister of eyes, grate a potato and tie in a cloth and place the cloth over eyes for about 15 minutes. Add a little pinch of salt in water and wash for bright and radiant eyes. Mix tomato juice and lemon juice in equal measure and apply around the eyes, after 30 minutes wash it off with cold and hot water alternatively. Make a mixture of sandal wood and nutmeg. Apply it around the eyes previous to sleep and wash it off in the morning.

For the final touch of any masculine handsome routine, I recommend you get some good cologne.

In preparation for my friend Adeline Moritz’s debutante party in Savannah this weekend.

All ladies know primping for any remotely formal event begins, at the very least, forty-eight hours in advance.

Try saying that with a straight face.

Despite the cynicism, I’m embarking on a grooming odyssey of sorts.

Seven o’clock Friday night will find me adequately tweezed, shaved, moisturized, spritzed, glossed, shined, scrubbed, polished and otherwise spruced up fantastically.

I will look, at best, marginally different than I do on the average Saturday morning. But I will, however, feel famished, exhausted and thus ultimately satisfied with my image.

It’s really exactly like sleeping in an hour late on a manic Monday morning, but skipping breakfast to shower. Honestly. Heh. What a morbid realization.

Ah well, it’s for my health. I will certainly benefit from a few days without burgers, fries, pizza and half-and-half in my coffee (these, by the way, comprise the building blocks of my diet). I’m fairly certain I’ve layered fresh nail polish over the old chippy stuff for at least three months. My fingernails might benefit from the oxygen exposure.

I have a bit of a complex. It has to do with my appearance. And it is totally ego-centric, vain, and narcissistic. Here’s how it goes: there is a normal part of me that generally wants to look good, all the time; but another, more cunning and meticulous part of me wants me to look like I don’t care that much about my appearance. Believe me, I care. But I definitely don’t want to look like I’m trying.

Probably ever since seeing the film My Fair Lady as a kid, I have had this fantasy about being noticed by someone who recognizes that I could look a lot better than I do. A Henry Higgins if you will, but not so much a speech therapist and etiquette coach as a Clinton and Stacy team.

Granted, there is a new aspect to this situation since becoming a mother that doesn’t really allow me any time to care. And there is the fact that I adore feeling comfortable more than feeling cute. And also that I can’t really afford to have a great wardrobe & a fabulous haircut every six weeks. Plus, I was about half-tomboy as a kid (“half” because on top of playing soccer and practicing my free throw during my spare time, I loved dressing up and playing “ladies” and have tea parties with my cousin).

So to make a long story short, here’s a list of things I could probably do but don’t really want to:

• Wear make-up
• Shave my legs more than twice a month
• Wear heels once in a while
• Pay some attention to my nails
• Spend more than 46 seconds on my hair
• Wear some jewelry besides my wedding band
• Pluck my eyebrows more carefully and thoroughly
• Refrain from buying pants and t-shirts in the boys’ section at the store
• Exercise?

Ok, so here is where it gets more complex. Besides wanting to be some kind of diamond in the rough, waiting to be discovered and made over, which may be partly responsible for this behavior, there is part of me that does (or doesn’t do) these things out of a kind of feminist rebellion. Part of me is simply a minimalist. And part of me has grown so accustomed to not giving the time for these things, that it has really become an issue of practicality. I mean, I already have 50 more things than I can actually accomplish on my daily to-do list. But I still have a fantasy that underneath my boyishness/sloppiness, I am stunning and that my Henry Higgins will notice that beauty and want to bring it out. Besides, what girl hasn’t wished she were Audrey Hepburn?

So what’s your personality contradiction?

(Cross-posted on my personal blog.)

First off, the items that won’t mean much to most of you:

- Condolences to beloved friend, Suzi. You’re in my thoughts this week…I’m here if you need me.

- Speedy recovery goes to little brother, who had ACL sugery last week. Poor, Cha-Cha.

- Happy due date to my beloved friend Stefanie. I hope baby delicious shows up on time so that your cervix can catch a break.

- Happy Birthday to Ezra, sometimes reader, the husband of one of my favorite women on earth and father to one of my favorite two year olds in the universe. And all around wonderful guy.

And now on to more random news items:

- Last night, I watched an episode of the BBC series Secrets of the Sexes…it was fascinating. I caught the second of the three-part series on Attraction and learned that the key to landing a man is your waist to hip ratio (well, and boobs, duh). And that short guys are going to have a harder time meeting women. Actually, I guess I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. But worth watching, nontheless.

- After watching above, I also watched Sunday night’s episode of The F Word on BBC America. I suppose I’m feeling a little Britain-sick. Regardless, it’s a great show and you get to see the much softer side of Ramsay. One complaint I have of this season is that a recurring guest (and high up on the imaginary boyfriend- UK version- list) from the previous season, journalist Giles Coren is nowhere to be found.

- This is my new favorite t-shirt.

- What do you say when a tiny Chinese woman shoves $50 worth of skin products into your hand after just being given surprise micro-dermabrasion and hearing in broken English “You too pretty to have bad skin!”? You buy it. And you know what? Besides the fact that it smells as if it’s burning off the outermost layer of my skin (which I’m fairly certain is the point), it’s really working. So, if you’re on the eternal quest for skin that doesn’t make you look so young you should be in a Noxema commercial, try this.

- I might be a little bit in love with Lucinda Williams. I’m also a little bit scared of her (actually, a lot. she looks like, if provoked, she’d smash a bottle over your head in the blink of an eye). Her voice is grainy yet sweet. Her songs are sad, sad, sad. The kind of songs that make you want to lock yourself into a room at the Motel 6, drink Jack Daniels and carve a man’s name into your arm. We’re talking dark, people. For example, some lyrics from Ventura:

Stand in the shower, clean this dirty mess,
Give me back my power, and drown this unholyness.
Lean over the toilet bowl, and throw up my confession,
Cleanse my soul, of this hidden obsession.

Anyway, if you just got dumped or you’re a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas living in a trailer or you’re a cowboy…Download Lu…she’ll commiserate with you.

-Finally, if you live in Boston, you really do need to give Eastern Standard a chance. Lots of people poo-poo restaurants in hotels, but I keep going back to the Standard. Friday, Mercedes and I had a wonderful (but not nutritious) dinner of mussels, calamari and salt cod fritters. In addition, ES serves one of my favorite cocktails to date: The Old Cuban (rum, lime, mint, champagne)…Not to mention they have a Pimm’s Cup cocktail on their menu. Great food, good atmosphere, serious bar food/drink and terrific service (General Manager, Andrew took care of us). I also highly recommend their special shots- or at least the Stardust (read this to learn more about how ’shots’ are in again, including the Stardust) tasted delicious after all that fried-goodness.

Sex. Food. Drink. Foul language. Rock and roll. And bad skin.

Yep, that about sums it up.