Wednesday, January 04, 2006

My name is Lolita and I'll be your server tonight

The spousal unit and I haven't gone out on a date for almost two years. I have grown very accustomed to not dressing up, although I used to love it. It's so much easier to dress like you're going to muck out a barn than go to a ball. I am pretty low maintenance and quite comfortable that way. I'd wear sweats to work every day if I could get away with it. And I mean old cruddy sweats, not anything in which J.Lo would be caught dead.

My work had a holiday party at a coworker's house. I decided this was my opportunity to dress up for once and I might as well go all out. The preparation nearly killed me. The initial shower took forever. I scrubbed every square inch with one of those scratchy gloves designed to exfoliate. I scrubbed off those dead cells with a vengence and wasn't satisfied until I saw gleaming bone.

Then there came the hair removal. If you took a Sasquatch to a spa, what tools would you use to defoliate him/her? Machete? Chain saw? I decided my three blade razor for women (because pastels remove female hair better than plain old black) would be sufficient, but how many boxes of them would I go through? I admit I get kind of lax about shaving in the winter when I'm covered from head to toe and no one but my husband sees the offensive fur unless of course I get in a car accident and brought to the emergency room which would, of course, only occur when I'm at my most furry and was wearing old and dirty underwear anyway. The ED staff would cut my clothes off and immediately decide that resuscitation wasn't that crucial after all.

I decided to start with the pruning shears then move to a hack saw for the more delicate work. Hours later I emerged from the shower bruised, weary, but fabulously smooth. Of course, my skin was now dry and flaking off like sawdust. Out came the creams. One for the face, another for the body, and another for the trouble spots. Spackled on the trouble-spot cream with a small trowel but didn't quite go through the entire five gallon bucket.

I looked in the mirror and found that I still had hair where it wasn't supposed to be. Says who, anyway? Why can't it be fashionable to look like you have a large black caterpillar crawling across your forehead? Or to look like you are wearing Ugg boots but you're not. Or to look like you've tucked chinchillas in your armpits but you haven't?

Nevertheless I plucked out each offending eyebrow hair until I stopped looking like a Frida Khalo impersonator. In third grade my archenemy told me I had a mustache. I spent a lot of time after that trying to find and remove it. Then I decided that if it wasn't visible to me, than it wasn't visible to anyone else. This logic is akin to believing if you have a bag over your head you're invisible, but it works for me.

On to the hair on the scalp. My stylist told me to blow dry until my hair feels too dry. So I did this until my hair crackled and started dusting my shoulders with ash. That ought to be good enough. I hadn't used a curling iron in a long time, so I bought one just for this occasion and cooked the remaining hair into pommes frites.

Then came the makeup. If you think this blog entry is endless, you should have sat watching me make an attempt at grooming. Or not. The concealer, the foundation, and again the trowel. My eyelash curler came from a Nazi physician's instruments kit. Mascara. Eye shadow! I last wore eyeshadow when I trying to woo my husband. Wooing now comes much easier ("honey, you feel like it tonight?" "honey, are you still breathing?") and so the eye makeup gathered dust. It was probably the dust that got smoothed over my lids oh-so-expertly. Lipliner. Lipstick.

Then the piece de resistance: false eyelashes. Since you have to squint to see if I have eyelashes, it seemed wise to make it look like they existed. Having never put them on before I think I did a good job and was able to finally get them on my lash line after removing them from my forehead and left nare where they first stuck.

I stuffed myself into a pair of control top nylons, a feat impossible had I not slicked myself down with the trouble-spot cream. Then the dress. It the gold damask dress my husband's mother wore to her engagement party in the 1960's. And gold heels, which I thought were rather tacky but since I was going for it I might as well go for it.

We went to the party and my husband looked good, but I explained to my coworkers that I felt like Hispanic Barbie. My boss accused me of missing the diversity classes. I didn't remind her that I was Hispanic and therefore deserved the right call myself Hispanic Barbie. Half the other people there were in jeans. But I gleamed like a sequin on a velvet Elvis painting.

I should have taken a picture. The hair has grown back in now, but I'll have witnesses that at least once in my life I looked like a real girl. Somehow that's twisted.

6 Comments:

At Thursday, January 05, 2006 9:25:00 PM, Anonymous lawbrat said...

Ya, I know that routine. My youngest once aske me about my moustache. I said I didnt have one. Oh yeah, he had to point it out. I thought boys were supposed to be nice to their mommy? He so needs to be retaught.

 
At Thursday, January 05, 2006 9:35:00 PM, Anonymous lawbrat said...

Alright, yea. Two posts in a row. I just had to add that I havent been on the computer much today, Phil is on my laptop, so I got on his computer. I never knew a person could need to be on TWO computers at once! He actually came into his study from the living room to access his computer, while also on mine!

Geesh, computer geeks!

 
At Saturday, January 07, 2006 2:43:00 PM, Anonymous lawbrat said...

Oh my, 3 comments from me!! Just call me a stalker.

With regard to the comment you left at my place, computer stuff, man in your life....I thought your hubby would get a kick out of Phils most recent post....or most recent several posts.

I'm in love with a computer geek, and i'm going to need to have a harddrive installed to get him to snuggle me while watching a movie- instead, I sit on the couch, he sits in front of the computer--but he's really watching the movie :-)

 
At Saturday, January 07, 2006 9:37:00 PM, Blogger Sheryle said...

Lawbrat, you can stalk me anytime! I'll have David take a look at Phil's posts. Sounds like they are peas in a pod.

Of course, David just says to me, "I've got your hard drive right here, baby." Even nookie now has geek terminology. I should resort to "no thanks honey, I don't have enough memory." 'Course than he'd just say, "What's your point?"

Oh, and children are wonderful about pointing out one's flaws, aren't they.

 
At Monday, January 09, 2006 7:47:00 AM, Anonymous lawbrat said...

Ya, the geek men in our lives. But, would we want it any other way? I think not.

 
At Thursday, January 12, 2006 11:02:00 AM, Blogger Sheryle said...

No way. The geek is a keeper!

 

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