S and M (No, not THAT)

Okay…so I know I didn’t get the Tiger babe shots produced in a timely fashion. And, in fact, I decided against the Tiger babe shots at all. Partly because I came to the conclusion that the Tiger babes had nothing even vaguely babelicious to aspire to for those of us whose tastes run to tasteful elegant with just a hint of real boob…not the melon sized versions on display in Vanity Fair. And, second of all, those girls are not all that hot. And they certainly have already left public consciousness.

So what I did instead was decided to take a bunch of forty somethings and some minutes away from fifty-somethings (me included) and turn us into an incredibly decent, respectable facsimile of the poster for the new Sex and the City movie. And my point is????? Here’s my point (and the reason for the title S & M….as in SMOKE AND MIRRORS, for all of you frisky minded folks…sorry to disappoint)..the point of this is that every day of our lives we spend a lot of time watching TV, looking at magazines, perusing the newspaper. Read more

And the best actor goes to…

…every member of the Hollywood audience who continues to pretend that they are straight when they are not. I know, I know, all of my gay friends continue to insist that all of the good looking male movie stars are gay. Nope, they don’t mention Seth Rogen as a probable giant homo or Mr. Bean as a flamer. Never heard ONE person discuss knowing a friend of a friend of a friend who did it with Charles Durning. It’s always people like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, Will Smith and certainly the most confusing to me, George Clooney. I’m sure they are wrong on some counts. But I’m sure they’re right on some, too. As my friend Gene points out…who did do theater in high school?? Who sang like birds and danced and pranced like queers? That’s right, queers. The boys with the Barbie collections who actually wore cashmere sweaters before they grew up and realized, as mere lads, the benefits of cashmere were both classic fashion and warmth. Who knew how to really cover zits with light cover up and a quick dusting of powder and that yellow made you look sallow and who could make you feel better when that football playing idiot picked the girl with the big boobs and easy access to them, over you who had neither the boobs or the concept of access. “Sag, sag, sag”, they used to say, and somehow, this idea, so abstract at 16, made you felt better. Yes. They were the primary male theater performers in every high school in the nation so it would make sense that at least a few of them would end up in Hollywood. And yet, by my count, the only gay guys in Hollywood are, hmmm, let me think for a minute, Okay, there’s…oh, wait, he’s not out…and then there’s, oh, right..we don’t know that for sure…and then, um, but I’m not sure…. Hmmm. So the only one I can come up with who’s actually out and honest about it is Pee Wee Herman. And he was outed by the police. Oh, and Paul Lynde. But he’s been dead for years. Even though I’m sure he’s still gay. And last week Ricky Martin. Ricky Martin was my crush right after my firstborn arrived. I would sit staring at the TV in a stupor and watch him sing “Living La Vida Loca” while the first man ever to truly worship at my tiny breasts fed himself to sleep and I would imagine my own “Vida Loca” with Ricky. But even I knew he was gay. Which was, after delivering a nine pound baby boy following a full three and a half hours of pushing with no epidural, just the kind of sex I was after. Gay sex. Which didn’t involve me.
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Naked Face

Okay, it’s 6:54 in the morning and I have nothing better to do than sit here and look through a two week old People Magazine that features a bunch of really pretty actresses with “no makeup”.   The deal is one I’m sure you are familiar with. The magazine strips these lovelies of their makeup and lays them out, blemishes and all, for the rest of us to see.  Weird, though, I never see any actual blemishes.  Or bags under their perfect youthful eyes.  Or the slightest sign of a crows foot.  In fact, almost no sign that their faces might ever move or see the light of day.  Hmmm.  Being the sleuth that I am, I found a surprisingly similar story from a few years ago titled  “It Takes Guts to Take it Off.  Who Dares to go Bare”.  After years of experience with beauty and gossip magazine reading, I know that this is a common sport.  The sport of asking beautiful young women who only just discovered the benefits of makeup four years ago when they stopped needing Clearasil to appear without their makeup.  They think we like it.  And maybe we do.  Apparently it’s a risky thing, the magazines always point out, appearing without makeup.  But they will do it, particularly if their publicists think it is a good idea and if they have a movie or tv show they need to get people interested in.  Or if their careers are failing.  Nothing gets people more interested in you than appearing with naked face in a national publication even if it is so SCARY for the star.  I guess it’s somewhat similar to asking me and my crowd to strip to their underwear, clench their butt cheeks and allow a photo to be taken from behind.  Hard to say a joyous “yes” to.  But I suppose if our publicist thought it was a good move?  So who dared?  The answer is several really beautiful woman well below the age of forty who may in fact be barefaced but are so beautifully and dramatically lit that it’s next to impossible to tell.  Check em out.rosario_dawsoneva_longoriajessica_simpsonSo I looked long and hard at these women “daring to go bare” and thinking of my own clenched butt cheeks, wondered what this was supposed to tell us?  What were we supposed to get from these pics?  Were any of us really stupid enough to believe that these woman, or in many cases, girls, were really au natural.  Trust me, I used to be on TV.  My husband is a cameraman. These women may not have on any make up.  But these women have something going on and that’s called lighting.  And retouching.  HEAVY retouching.  Truth.  Most of us will never be as pretty as these women, as gifted in the bone structure department and most of us will only have our picture snapped by family members at family functions, usually from an unpleasant angle with our mouths hanging slightly open, a double chin and the only lighting coming from the sun.  And no one will ask us to go without makeup, even our spouses. who used to claim we looked better that way.  In face, when I do go without makeup, someone always assumes I’m sick and I have to assure them that I feel fine, I’m just “daring to go bare”.  This usually prompts a blank stare and a quick move on down the supermarket aisle.  Look, the reason these women look like movie stars even without makeup is because they ARE movie stars.  And beautiful one’s at that.  No one is asking Seth Rogen to “Dare to go Bare” although I suspect he always does.   These women, in all their barenaked glory have been lit to high heaven.  The amount of light on their faces, bleaching them smooth and unspotted would, in a normal world, would require tapping into and sucking dry the electrical grid and possibly blacking out the Northeast.  And can we talk about retouching.  My god.  After forty, we should all be assigned a retoucher to follow us everywhere.  My friend Jane believes that there is a poetry in the failure of eyesight as we age.  If you don’t wear your glasses, after a certain age, then whenever you look in the mirror you are instantly retouched. As she says, no nasal labial sag, no wrinkles, beautiful complexion. The key is how to keep everyone in your life from wearing their glasses and that seems unrealistic.  And problematic.  You might look good to everyone around you but suddenly the world will stop because no one can actually see what they’re doing.  It may be a small price to pay but I can’t see convincing Obama that this is something we should encourage for vanity’s sake. I do know, should your eyesight be still quite good or you actually want to appear attractive to those not just suffering from myopia, there are some tricks for looking better in a pic.  Find your side.  We all have one.  I have one eye smaller than the other so the smaller one needs to always go toward the camera.  Chin extended but sort of tipped forward as if you were extending your neck .  Avoid that double chin at all costs.  I ALWAYS raise my eyebrows.  It’s a mini, very short term facelift with none of the pain, the expense or the sutures and blood.  Trust me, it’s all a science. And finally , when possible, I have very good lighting.  Lighting beats makeup ANY day.  At least in a photo.  I am going to show you the difference below.  Me, daring to go bare.  As much as it kills me to not have on lipstick.  I think we each have our things.  I can’t go for a jog without lipstick even though my friend and jogging partner Kristina thinks I look way better without it.  She seems to be the only one who doesn’t think I look sick but I often wonder if this is some weird passive aggressive thing she’s doing trying to make me look bad in case I run faster.  She, of course, has to put on eyebrow pencil before we run.  I think that is just weird.

So down below, so to speak, I take it all off just to show you the power of good lighting.  And retouching.  The first pic is a snap from the nice family camera with a flash.  The second, a picture with lighting but very close from my spouse who makes thousands of dollars a day filming anyone from Angelina Jolie to Ann Curry and Stephen Colbert.  And they always look good.  Particularly Stephen. And the last was sweetly retouched by my friend Rob, an extraordinary photographer(www.robfortunato.com) who has, according to my kids, somehow shaved fifteen years off my life by eliminating anything that might show I had lived on the planet.  And it took him less than an hour.  My boys actually looked at Rob’s picture when I asked if it looked like me and they said “Yeah, mom.  How old were you when they took it?”  The were shocked when I said that the pic was an hour old and not from nursery school.  It’s pretty interesting to look at the three.  Deep, no.  Interesting, yes.

dsc_1205jen-final-jpgjenny-for-rob2So here’s the deal.  Unless you can travel with your retoucher or only hang out with people who are not wearing their glasses, don’t go bare.  Or go bare but know that people will think you’re sick.  And they’ll count your wrinkles.  Or do what my friend Jean Godfrey June suggests.  Jean is the ultra talented beauty editor of Lucky Magazine and the author of the book “Free Gift With Purchase”.  Jean knows everything there is to know about looking good.  She’s not twelve and she always looks beautiful. Jean is one of these natural San Francisco beauties, all fresh faced and seemingly bare save for what appears to be a slick of Vaseline on the lips.  But as Jean will tell you, it takes some very artful makeup application to look like you aren’t wearing anything.

2006_06_jeangodfreyHere’s what she swears by:

May 14 at 5:24pm
5 Steps to Looking Like You Have No Makeup On (aka I Just Wake Up This Way, REALLY)
1. Self-tanner. This is optional — if you’re pale and you love it, or already-dark, you’ve only got 4 steps to do, so take a moment to reflect on how more-naturally-gorgeous, time-saving and money-saving you are. But if you’re like me, self-tanner will make you look well rested and much more even-skinned. Much.
2. Tinted Moisturizer. You have to experiment with formulas, because some tinted moisturizers are just foundation in a different tube. You want to be able tosee freckes through it. Many women think they need to cover flaws with foundation—NO. This is the job of concealer.
3. Concealer. Most critical for me. Get a thick concealer, the kind that comes in pot, and dab it on with a brush ONLY on the spots or dark areas you want to cover. PAT to blend—do not rub. When you rub, you’re moving the concealer off the thing you want to conceal and onto another part of your face. Pat. You will think it’s taking forever, that it’s not blending in, and then — suddenly, your flaws are concealed and you look perfect.
4. Mascara. You can also use the tiniest bit of eyeliner—black or brown—ONLY at the roots of your lashes, for extra oomph.
5. Sheer tinted lip balm in a brighter color than you’d normally pick.

Tell me if you want product recommendations!

Jean has a great blog at Lucky.  Check it out.  And she’s always a fun read in the magazine.(www.luckymag.com).

I say use Jeans tips.  Then no one will ever say you look tired or sick.  And they will think you are perfectly preserved.  And that you “Dare to go Bare”.  Somehow that get’s me thinking about clenched butt cheeks again.  And I would rather NOT think about butt cheeks, particularly with bathing suit season here.  The other thing People and other magazines seem to be really attentive to are celebrity weight issues.  Once again, back to the butt cheeks.  Stop me.  It’s like a bad dream, the clenched butt cheeks in my head.  Next week:  Reality Shows we’d(those of us of a certain age) ACTUALLY watch.  And magazine headlines that would make us buy. And we’re not talking celebrities yoyo dieting or willingness to go makeup free.  Or Jon and Kate, whoever they are.  We’re talking things that WE care about.  Like “The Chardonnay Diet…Lose Pounds and Inches by Giving Up Food”.  Or “Survivor: Suburbia”.

Winter Carnage

I know everyone is consumed with debating the surprise outcome of American Idol last night.  I however find myself somewhere else.  I woke to the realization that it is growing warmer out, the days are longer, my gardens are full of great looking things, my kids are losing their winter pallor, freckles springing out on their perfect noses.  And this can mean only one thing.  (Cue theme to “Jaws”).  Bathing suit season is upon us.  Now I will confess to having had a relatively easy life in bathing suits.  With the exception of my college years where, like a child who had been raised as a captive in a basement and fed only gruel and broth, minus the truly scary part where you bear your fathers children, I decided that I could and should eat all meals plus a third of a case of beer a day accompanied by things like whole bags of sour cream and onion chips and maple candy, sharing all gorging equally with my beloved previously thin roommates Holly and CC. We’d snack on turkey subs, hitchhike to another VT city for freshly made Ben and Jerrys BY THE PINT and indulge in bags of M&M’s to help us cram.  Cram brains and faces with those large bags of M&M’s created for cake decorating or birthday parties, not for single person consumption. We’d think nothing of eating a full meal in the cafeteria and then going out for a second meal an hour later.  It wasn’t pretty and I came home at the end of freshman year having put on what one person phrased “The Freshman Fifty”.  This was the same person who sweetly asked if we’d each had a whole turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.  I think we were sort of legendary on campus because we’d arrived as cute girls that the boys liked.  By the time we left at the end of the freshman year, I’m sure there was a parental debate about the need to strap either us or the bags to the roof of the car.  I had always been a thin person and my family seemed stunned at my new proportions not to mention how closely they had to guard their plates from me.  Luckily this phase passed and I returned to a less debauched and more figure flattering style of life.  So, except for that period,  I never really minded the advent of summer.  But in the last few years I’ve noticed something.  I’ve noticed that the thought of bathing suit season makes me a bit nervous.  It makes me a bit cranky.  And, to tell the truth, it makes me downright frightened.  In the most superficial way.

During the other months I don my jeans and t-shirts, my dresses, my sweaters, my boots and my heels and I feel happy most of the time.  But as each year passes, when push comes to shove and it’s time to get naked and go out in the world midst the judgmental suburban mommies and appraising, lecherous daddies, the gravitational pull of life makes the unveiling just plain tough.  It started a few years ago.  Little things.  The droop in the belly button.  I’ve mentioned that before.  The butt cheeks that when you lifted them had a lot more give than you remembered.  And when you clenched them, the naked rear view caused a quick confused rush of blood to the head.  Even my tiny boobs seemed a little depressed as they veered toward the ground, just the teensiest bit.  Something around my knees…a little pouch that was never there before. The pocket of flesh I lovingly refer to as The Apartment, left over from two pregnancies that produced two fabulous boys even if I did border on college proportions at the end of each nine month festival.  I don’t know why that fleshy pocket won’t leave.  Perhaps it mistakes me for a kangaroo and thinks there will be a future need to carry things in it.  And let’s not even go into age spots.  I refuse to even utter or imagine the words LIVER SPOT.  Surely if they were LIVER spots, mine would be full of holes from alcohol consumption.  We’ll call them age spots.  The phrase “age spots” is not a nice one but it’s far better than referring to a slight natural sun based shift in pigmentation by naming it after an organ responsible for filtering waste.  The skin on your neck and under arms, what do they call it, crepey.  A Crepey Neck.  That’s just wrong.  My neck does not look like an edible crepe?  Nor does it look like the fabric Crepe.  It does, however, look like crap, compared to what it used to look like.  I think that whole thing was a typo.  Ah, this disolution of the body is, in some ways, harder than the face.  Your face is out there for all to see, all the time.  You just get used to it.  Your naked or near naked body is like a fresh, mean surprise every Memorial Day.  Somehow you hope that winter has been kind and that you’ll get naked and people will gasp with delight.  Or at least not shudder.  That all those vitamins and jogs and cutting back on drinking during the week will have made a big difference.   That things will be as they once were, when the only time you truly looked horrid in a bathing suit was when you were buying it due to the horrifying lighting at most department stores.  Well, the truth is, now you’ll always be sort of horrid.  At least substantially more horrid than you were at 16.  Or 21.  Or, goddamnit, 30.    It is just the deal.  It’s as if your body is saying, in an insidious whispery little voice “Happy spring, sorry to disappoint  but you look much worse than last year and you will continue to decline. ”   I suppose the good news is you don’t need to cut back on the drinking during the week.  Nothing will help.  And I am sure there is a slight upside to all of this.  These changes will, I promise, result in a long marriage.  Seems crazy but I believe, though I have no scientific data to back me up,  that these tiny physical changes are the leading cause in marriages surviving until death.  Because I know that all of my friends live in deathly fear of EVER having to remove their clothing in close proximity to any male who doesn’t ignore them when they’re naked.  If someone actually gazed at them naked, I think my friends would all die of fright.  And an affair isn’t an affair without getting good and naked and gazing.  “Remember that?” she sighs. So, trust me on this one…no affair, married until death.  The upside of a droopy body. Sort of  Marriage counselors need to push this point more frequently.

Despite my resignation, I’m still trying to keep the underarm jiggle at bay but little works.  I do my sit ups.  I’m trying to keep my calories down but my body doesn’t seem to care.  I eat tons of salad.  I’m trying to drink less and meditate more but, truthfully, drinking is more fun.  I’m trying to figure out how to love myself as I am and wear each jiggle and drip of flesh proudly.   To know that my crappy neck is the product of years of fun living, The Apartment gave me kids and that I can’t resent my husband because he doesn’t have a crappy neck, a droopy butt or even wrinkles.  To understand that people will always love me for who I AM not how I look in a bikini.  Or a one piece.  Or one of those skirt bathing suits.  Or a burqa.  Where do you get a burqa?

Happy Memorial Day!