Tangerine Dreams

So I had to return something to J Crew yesterday. Just real quick, in and out, I said to myself.

Well, since I'm here, I further "dialoged" with myself, I really should go check out the sales racks -- which of course are strategically (and wisely, on JC's part)  placed in the way-back of the store.

I eventually got to the stuff on sale... after having gotten sidetracked by one spring-y, pretty, trendy, tangerine-colored thingy after another.

Unless you reside in a cave, I'm sure you've seen all the catalogs, magazines and ads "yelling" how popular the "oranges" are this year. The It Color for 2012, they say. Tangerine, coral, papaya, mango, peony, salmon, poppy, apricot, Clemson orange (Go, Tigers!) -- and varying shades of all the aforementioned hues. Some brighter than others...

{Most of these shades, I've learned, will work.}

So I was lovin' life and happy with all my options as I headed into the dressing room...until I held a very bright tangerine blouse up to my face and took a gander in the mirror. What was I thinking? My.face.looked.horrid. Google "sallow skin," and that was me!  I was disappointed in myself (and embarrassed, quite frankly) that I honestly thought I could still pull off wearing those intense, bright, saturated colors.

In a matter of seconds, reality struck. Lesson learned: You're too old to wear the brights, Girl. And my Tangerine Dreams became a nightmare.

So I returned my previous J Crew item and made two new small purchases. Sadly, however, nothing in the orange-hued family.

Time was running out. I had to get home. But I persevered. I was determined to NOT leave the mall without something in the It Color to put on my body. Lipstick! That's it! I'll run into Nordstrom's really quick and get thee most perfect pop of coral-y/tangerine-y lip color, like, ever!

So I went to the Lancome counter, hoping to get the more mature consultant of the two. (The comfort-in- numbers/misery-loves-company thing.) But noooooo. I got the young, long-legged,  heavily-accented  Jennifer Lopez-lipped, Russian/Croatian/Czechoslavakian (one of those countries) beauty!  Whatever.

I explained that I wanted their most on-trend orange color they had. My first choice to try, of course, was their brightest coral. (Okay. I'm a slow learner.) She indulged me as she deftly applied it with her handy-dandy Q-tip. After looking at myself in the mirror, and then looking at her, I felt awful, because I knew she was aghast at my appearance, and she didn't quite know how to address the situation.

"It's too bright, huh?"

Perfect entree for her: "Uhhhh, yes, ma'am. Yes. Way. Way. Let's try a more natural color, something more subtle. I think that will look much better with your skin."

After a bit of back-and-forth, together we arrived at a much more muted color, but still in the tangerine fam, which I so desperately wanted. It's called Rouge In Love #322. And I think I like it. A lot. For now.

And I will save the bright corals/tangerines/poppys for pedicures and throw pillows.

The Early Morning Mirror

How is your Early Morning Mirror? I know you didn't ask, but let me tell you about mine.

It's horrid. Unkind. Cruel. Some days are worse than others, but none of them are kind or inviting anymore. It is with shock and awe that I face my Early Morning Mirror.

I've tried putting frozen spoons on my eyes. I've done the tea bag thing. I've tested the refrigerated cucumber slices. Nothing has helped. Of late, I've resorted to applying fresh-out-of-the-freezer icecubes on them in an attempt to shock/jolt the creases, bags and crevices back to relative smoothness. To no avail.

I've tried new pillows, fluffy pillows, firm pillows, double pillows, non-allergenic pillows and satin pillowcases. No help. Even then, that vicious army of ugly angry fatty globules marches into and onto my face nightly, invading, attacking and taking up residence in the upper 50% of my face.

So what am I supposed to do - sleep standing up, or sitting upright? Is it possible to sleep with eyes wide open?  Will keeping watch over the invasion of the UAFG's prevent them from appearing?

After age 40, Beauty Sleep becomes an oxymoron. There is no such thing.

I know...I know. No one really cares, or notices, how my Early Morning Mirror looks. But I do. I care. Just like you care about yours.

This is my beautiful, contented, peaceful Early Morning Mirror... before I look into it. 


So, okay. So then it's time to get ready for the day. And that's when the work really begins. The toner, the moisturizer, the concealer, the foundation, the brightener, the eyelash curler, yada, yada, yada. (Please tell me you, too, know the drill.)

Hillary Clinton was right (for once I agree with her): It Takes A Village for me to physically and mentally take on the day. And why is it that now it takes about four (4!) times as long to look maybe, maybe, half (1/2!) as presentable? The math just doesn't calculate. And it is not fair.

Okay. Okay. I know I'm being all superficial and shallow here.

So just to prove to you, my readers, out there (I think my readership is up to like 7 now!!) that I have a little substance, that I'm not always a shallow swimmer, I'll share with you some of my favorite quotes on the subject of beauty.

"Beauty is not in the face. Beauty is a light in the heart."

"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone."

"Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old."

"Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not!"

"I'm tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin deep. That's deep enough. What do you want - an adorable pancreas?"

Have a BEAUTIFUL weekend, everyone!

When Skinny Grandma Turned 55

(Before I tell you what I really want to tell you here, let me say that as far back as I can remember, my Sister, Claudia, and I always referred to our grandmothers as Skinny Grandma (my Dad's mom) and Fat Grandma (my Mom's mom). And the weird thing is, Skinny Grandma wasn't skinny -- or fat; and Fat Grandma wasn't fat -- or skinny. Note to self: Ask Mom where those nicknames originated.)

Anyway, I remember like it was -- I don't know -- four years ago, when Skinny Grandma turned 55. And I vividly recall that I felt mournful, sad and confused. I mean, why in the world were we celebrating and singing and eating cake?  55 years old!  Are you kidding me? At that old age, surely we should be planning her funeral. I was convinced that she and Grandpa (we did not call him Skinny Grandpa) were not long for this Earthly world, that they'd be going to heaven soon...within months, certainly within the year!

I can picture so clearly the five of us grandkids in the back yard of their pinkish adobe house (wasn't it?) in San Bernardino, California, cavorting and frolicking and singing around sweet Skinny Grandma as she made her wish and blew out the candles on her birthday cake. And since she was, after all, knocking on death's door, I remember feeling so relieved that she had to blow out only five candles.

Reality, thankfully, proved my thoughts and fears wrong. She indeed wasn't decrepit, or past her prime, or close to meeting her expiration date. She remained active, healthy and vibrant for many, many years thereafter.

But here's the irony of life, or more accurately, the circle of life.  Now it's my turn. In six months and two days, I turn 55.

OMGsh! 

But it's all good... 

I no longer look at 55 with horror and fear, through 7-year-old eyes, like I did with Skinny Grandma. And in 10 years, when I'm 65, I bet you anything I'll look back longingly at my "young" 55-year-old self, wondering where the time went. You know what I mean?

It's all relative.

It is what it is.

Savor the moments.

And remember...THESE are the good old days.

Hands Down

Please! Hide 'em.

That's how I feel about my hands.

They're all speckled and freckled. You know that over-ripe banana you have downstairs in your fruit bowl right now, the one with all the brown spots on it?  Yep, that's how my hands look.

And they're pudgey. Or at least my fingers are. What's with that?

My husband recently looked at an old photo of me holding our newborn daughter, immediately after giving birth (when, ostensibly, I was at my puffiest/pudgiest self), and exclaimed, "Look how long your fingers were!!" (If I ever learn how to scan a photo, I'll post that pic and a present-day pic of my hands to prove it to you.)

Oh well. Such is the reality of these aging body parts. Will I spend time/energy/money to get them lasered at my dermatologist's office? Absolutely not. I'll just continue to be vigilant in keeping my hands down and hidden whenever possible.

Moving on to a more non-superficial, gracious commentary on hands: I've always kind of had a thing for hands. I think they're truly one of God's supreme masterpieces. Quite beautiful, actually. And think about their function, purpose and beauty. Helping hands. Holding hands. Praying hands.

Here are three of my favorite images of hands.

                                              Awwww. Remember that?

A beautiful drawing by Albrecht Durer.

                                 Michaelangelo's David's hands.  Exquisite.

So, yeah. My hands may be all mottled, weathered and pudged-out, but they're still in good working order. And I'll take them over anyone else's any day. Hands down.

Girls Getaway

I'm currently suffering from post-getaway depression. I'm not asking for pity or anything like that. And I'm not saying my real, day-to-day life here in Gold River isn't just ducky (the vast majority of the time). I'm just sharing with you that... I'm kinda blue. And like any vacation, big or small, the return to reality can be rough.

Last Thursday afternoon, myself and three friends (sans my sister/dearest friend, who couldn't make it at the last minute...argh), escaped Sacramento and environs and embarked upon a three-night sojourn to Carmel, where T has theeee most adorable, historic, quintessential Carmel-By-The-Sea cottage.  A to-die-for,  perfectly petite, oh-so-charming, vintage, Continental Cream and perfect-shade-of-green-colored grown-up dollhouse, whose outside is "strangled" (in a good way) with assorted vines, Bougainvillea, hydrangeas and roses. I mean, we're talking I-want-to-sit-in-this-Sisal-rug-chandeliered-poufy-pillowed-patina'd-haven-forever kinda place.

            .

(Note: Sunglasses have been worn and the names have been changed to initials here to protect the not-so-innocent.)

So D, J and I were so happy and thankful to be invited back by T to this little piece of heaven, aptly called Lollygag. 'Cuz that's what we did. We Lollygagged. (Now a verb.)

And we ate way more food than was necessary, drank an over-abundance of wine, and consumed more martinis than was prudent. (By the way, absolutely NO driving was involved. Try this ONLY at home.)

And it was wonderful....

While we wished the empty calories and yummy carbohydrates did not count, we had absolutely no regrets. Zero! Zilch! Nada!

And we shopped (some more than others), and walked,  and laughed, until tears ran down our face...and legs.  And it was relaxing.

We browsed downtown,  slept (some louder than others),  listened to music, and ate even more. And it was delightful.

As is our tradition, we gave each other "happys" (aka gifts). D gave us each a thought-provoking, inspired, fun book of self-discovery, where we are tasked with filling out a W I D E variety of lists -- anything from "List What's Under Your Kitchen Sink" to "List the Lines You're Sick of Waiting In" to "List the Ways You've Been Affected by a Higher Power." Neat, huh?

And we talked and talked and talked.  And it was therapeutic. And essential...

We vented about the ever-present elephant in the room: Aging. And we decided there isn't a thing we can do about it, and that, actually, growing older is a pretty darn good alternative.

We discussed our kids (of course!), and how absolutely fabulous each other's kids are. We talked about our pride of / fears for / concerns about each son and daughter, and the many exciting possibilities that lie ahead for them all!

We chatted about our husbands. And let me tell you, that was fun and entertaining and hilarious... and from whence a good portion of the laughter for the weekend came. Gotta love 'em.

The words "corncob," "Burrata cheese," "granite slab," and "stomach 's'" will never again have quite the same meaning for us. All IJ's (inside jokes)! And trust me, you don't wanna know. And we spent a good 30 minutes discussing the correct pronunciation of "peonies." Lollygagging at its finest...

Heavy-duty, serious matters were explored. Inane, lighthearted topics were discussed. And somehow, even the relatively meaningless, light stuff became full of gravity and weight and importance. Because, I suppose, friends were gathered, ideas and perspectives were shared, and appreciation of our differences were acknowledged and celebrated.

And it was all fabulous. Every second.

Sunday afternoon rolled around way too quickly, where it was time to pack up, clean up, and head home. Springing forward for Daylight Savings seemed so unfair, as we mourned the loss of spending one more hour of Lollygagging.

But it was indeed a grand and glorious weekend, where time and laughter was cherished,  more memories were made, and opinions and confidences were shared.

And, as Dionne Warwick would say, that's what friends are for.

The Clutterful, Middle-Aged Mind

My car, kitchen, family room, bathroom and bedroom are all clean, spiffy and clutter-free, with no discernible physical disorder. My 54-year-old mind, however, is full of worry, junk, overload and stress.

This is exactly how I feel:

Please tell me you can relate.....  ?

I believe, I believe!

.... in endorphins. I do. They're the best.

Do you know what endorphins are? Look it up in your Webster. It's something (peptides?) that your brain produces. "Resembling opiates" is what my Webster said. And I believe it. I'm addicted.

So this post is kind of my Love Letter to Endorphins.

I love to exercise. Well, I take that back. I love the after-effects of exercising. I live for tough, sweaty workouts. Well, I guess I take that back, too. I love the afterglow and high that I feel after a tough, sweaty workout.

I've been working out, in one form or another, all of my adult life. I got hooked in my 20's when I was living in Corona del Mar, where I'd run along the Pacific blue and attend high-impact aerobics classes. Daily. And when I would teach the Saturday 10:00 a.m. aerobics class, I WAS Jennifer Beal in Flashdance. (For you 40-somethings and younger (brats), you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?)

And then came my 30's and 40's. Marriage-hood and Mom-dom happened. And the addiction continued. The #1 prerequisite to a home purchase was always how close said home was to a gym and running. 

To seek sanity and mental health, and to pursue the dream of cottage cheese-free, thin thighs, I would run (well "jog" is the more apropos word, right, Julie?) and/or work out five to seven days a week.
It got to the point where, when Cassidy and Julia were little and things got stressful (ahem) around the house, my husband would beg me to go for a run or a workout. Smart guy. He knew my endorphin high would rid myself (and him, hopefully) of my Mom-Angst, Husband-Anger, Court Reporter-Overload, or whatever the "stress du jour" was. And nowadays I go to rid myself (and him, hopefully) of Hormones-Gone-Wild and Empty-Nester-Anxiety/Depression. And, of course, to try to eradicate (okay, minimize, let's be realistic) the ravages of what time and gravity is doing to this body of mine.

~~ Cue the sounds of screeching brakes and crashing ~~

On March 30, 2006, I had arthroscopic knee surgery. My orthopedic surgeon, Dr. C, said I'd be back running in three months. Until he got in there and observed all the damage that had been done. He retracted what he said and strongly suggested I not run anymore.  As in, never again. Another major Uh-Oh moment in this Growing Older journey. Big! Fat! Bummer!

But back to the endorphins. 
~~ Cue the beautiful piano music ~~

While I continue to mourn the loss of my running days, I am still able to get that exhilirating endorphin high by working out on the Elliptical or (my beloved) StairClimber. My heart rate escalates. I sweat. I am invincible. I move/step/glide at Level 11-16, while visions of fat-on-my-thighs-going-up-to-Cottage-Cheese-Heaven dance in my head.  I can conquer my day -- or do a stellar job trying!

And it is blissful.

For this ever-changing body, in this constantly-evolving world, the endorphin high is the one and only thing that has remained a constant in my life. Do I sound like a Drama Queen?  Sorry. But it's true.

If you are not yet addicted to endorphins, I recommend you get hooked ASAP. It's good for your body, your health, and your psyche. No matter your age -- whether you're a brat (aka younger than me) or way older than me, it is not too late.

Carpe YOUR diem, and get high...on endorphins.  And you, too, will become a believer.