Nina Lewis

Archive for March, 2010

I have been growing out my hair since the first of January in anticipation of our trip to a tropical isle. When my desert dry hair gets anywhere near humidity, it sproings all over the place.  Humidity + my hair = a bad, bad hair day.

For our trip, I wanted to be able to pull it back into a ponytail.

My hair was long enough.  Barely.  It was quite short and stubby.  Quite.  Almost a whopping two inches.  But at least it wasn’t splaying out in an uncontrollable frizz.  Some people can do frizz and pull it off.  I can’t.

I really didn’t care what I looked like.  Ease was what I wanted.  The ponytail was wonderful.

I knew that when I got back, I would get my hair cut.

While we were at the airport in Fiji waiting to come home, I saw a lady with a cute, cute hair do.  I liked it so much I surreptitiously snapped a photo of her with my iPhone.  After an internal argybargy with myself (and a little bit with my husband), I even went over and chatted with her about it (much to my shy husband’s chagrin).

You’re going to do what?  Talk to a total stranger about how she curls her hair?

After I talk to her, she won’t be a total stranger.  We’ll be bosom friends.  Forever and ever.  Or at least until I come back and sit down by you . . .

When I got back home and went to my hair stylist, I pulled out my iPhone.  “Can you do this?”

“Sure.  Piece of cake.”

She texturized and trimmed.  She sheared and shaped.  She used thinning shears and a razor blade in addition to her scissors.  (I have a fine textured hair but it’s rather thick in back.) I came out a different woman (and 5 pounds lighter from having less hair . . .).

My husband’s balding pate looks like Rapunzel compared to me . . .

For those of you who know me, you might remember the haircut I had a couple of years ago when I broke my elbow (and smashed my face and broke my teeth in a nasty fall) and couldn’t fix my hair because of my broken elbow.  I hated that cut.  Positively hated it.  It was an old lady’s cut.  Old as in a style that something from my grandmother’s generation.

This cut?  Love it, love it, love it.  It’s more modern — at least that’s the delusional thought I tell myself.  It takes me about 5 minutes in the morning to fix instead of 30.

However, my ears and the back of my neck was very cold as I walked to work through the snowstorm this morning.  They haven’t been this exposed to the elements since the Jurassic era of  my life.  I think I need to keep wearing turtleneck shirts even though tomorrow will be April.

I also got some new eyeshadow.  Instead of the earth tones that I have been wearing for the last 15 years, I have Lavendar Meadow, Revlon’s Colorstay 12 Hour Eyeshadow.  Revlon claims the color won’t crease or smudge for up to twelve hours and that’s a pretty accurate statement.  My Lavendar Meadow stoically resists falling into the wrinkle crevices on my eyelids.  Sweet.

I’ve also started wearing my contacts again.  (I started because bifocal glasses while snorkeling just doesn’t cut it.)  And, I got a new pair of reading glasses.  (One old pair had broken and the other was too ghastly to be seen in public with.)

So, next time you’re in my neck of the woods, feel free to pop in to gawk celebrate my new fashion faze*.

By the way, my eye makeup is not quite as ornate as the picture above nor as colorful as the picture below.

*Faze - verb meaning to cause to be disturbed or disconcerted.  This word usage (faze) was intentional.  So, Dear Reader, don’t think that my grey matter is so discombobulated that I don’t have the ability to use the word ‘phase’ (which, in your misguided opinion, you think should have been the correct word).

Normally when people give you the run down on their trips, they start at the beginning and plug slowly detail by boring detail through their entire trip.  You’re lucky.  I’m starting at the end.  That’s the way I read books so that’s how I’ll write about our great trip to Fiji.  (You’ll just have to wait for a later post to hear about our surviving the cyclone . . . )

First. you need to know that I do not care one little bit for flying.  Or two.  Or three.  To say that flying terrifies me is like saying that water is slightly wet.  My taking Valium is the only way my husband can get me on a plane.

First, I would like to share with you a picture of an Air Pacific plane that is similar to the one that we flew on.  (Click on the picture so that you can see a bigger picture of it.)  Cute little bugger, huh?

Now, here is an airport in Fiji.  Cute little airport, eh?

This isn’t the one that we flew into.  Thank goodness.  I would have had to take 94 Valium pills if we did.

All the passengers were loaded and we were taxing out to the runway ready to take off to come back home.  The pilot came over the intercom and said that due to an engine malfunction we’d have to go back to the hangar to get it fixed.  It would take an hour and then we’d be on our way.

An engine malfunction?  An engine malfunction?  Didn’t he learn in flight school that he doesn’t say things like that to passengers — especially to those who were on Valium?

Instead, couldn’t he have said, “I’m sorry.  We forgot to load toilet paper for the flight.  We have to go back to the hangar to get some.”

Or: “Sorry, I think I left the stove on at home.  I’ve got to go back and check to make sure it’s off.  I’ll be back fast.  It should only take me an hour to go check it.”

Or: “I forgot to kiss my wife good-bye.  I’ll be in deep doo doo when I get back if I don’t go and give her a good-bye kiss.”

All of these reasons would have been perfectly plausible and acceptable.  But no.  Instead he had to use the lame excuse of a malfunctioning engine.

I spent the entire hour imagining just exactly where over the ocean that the engine would fall off.  And if I would die from a metal shard if the plane exploded due to the loss of the engine.  Or, would I die of fright on the way down.  Or would I die as I hit the ocean as I plummeted hundreds of miles an hour into the water that would really feel like concrete.

Lovely, peaceful thoughts, huh?  I had to double my dose of Valium when we finally did take off.

Amazingly, we made it to the Los Angeles International Airport without any incident.  All the engines stayed attached to the airplane like the good little engines that they were meant to be.  Which was good.  I was getting low on Valium.

However, I did make one vow to myself.  When (notice I didn’t say if I said when) I die in a plane crash, I will die with dignity.  I will not yell, nor scream, nor cry uncontrollably.  I don’t want to embarrass my husband — nor myself.  And I’ll be calm because I’ll be drugged up to the hilt with Valium . . .

A storm is in the forecast for today.  Do I care?  Not one little bit.

In less than 2 hours, we’ll be heading off for our annual fun-in-the-sun get-away.  This year’s destination is Fiji.

It’s so much like Tahiti why are you going to Fiji? you ask.  You’ve already be to Tahiti — twice!

Why not go? I reply.

My goal is to visit as many of the tropical places in paradise as I can — before Alzheimer’s sets in.  Or before my body goes kaput (more than it already has).

While yes, Fiji and Tahiti share the same South Pacific ocean location, and yes, they are both tropical paradises, and yes we had to sell off our first born to afford to go there, they are different cultures, different histories, different cuisines, different things to see.

As I bask in the sun, play in the sea, and frolic on the beach, I shall think of you, Dear Reader, who is stuck in the daily grind of normal life wherever you are in the world.  (Except for you, Julianne.  You live in a tropical place so you don’t count!)

A moment of silence for all of the rest of my readers.

Au revoir.

I lead the music for the children’s meeting at my church.  Yesterday, we sang one song where there was lot’s of action — stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down, twirl around, sit down, stand up.  The closest chair to use within my reach was a Baby Bear sized chair.  Which meant that all of the up-and-down-and-back-up-again was like doing deep knee bends.  In high heels.  Over and over and over.

I should have gotten a Papa Bear sized chair.

As I walk down the stairs today, my knees have a little conversation with me. “Heh, heh, heh!  Doesn’t this feel grand?  All of these muscles that you haven’t used in years that you used intensely yesterday.  Stiff and sore.  Stiff and sore.  Let’s do more — deep knee bends.”

I reply, “Ugh!  I can hardly move.  This is PAIN-FULL.  Why did I have the children sing that so much?  What in the world was I thinking? I’m never going to do that again!”

I want to sit in a hot tub and soak my soreness away.

Then, I saw this movie clip.  I told my knees to shut up and watch.  They were amazed.  So was the rest of the body.  I had to go lay down for 3 hours afterward because I got stiff and sore just watching this movie!  Pay close attention to it — especially to the part where one girl is in a hayloft bending over to get an apple.

I can do what these girls do.  I can do all of those feats.  Really.  I can.

Wait.  Who am I kidding?  I can’t even bend over and touch my toes. But I do think I could sing the Solid Potato Salad song!  And that’s because I am so solid after eating all of my mother’s delicious potato salad.

Enjoy!

Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream.  I have a question.

That question is: where does the make-up go by 5:00 p.m. that I so artistically apply at 6:00 o’clock in the wee hours of the morning?  Huh?  Inquiring minds want to know.

I gently apply foundation.  I whisk on a delicate layer of blush.  I artfully line my eyes.  I apply highlight colors to my brow bone, mid-tones to my eyelid, and darker accent colors to the creases in  my eyelid.  I brush on mascara to make my eyes look bold and daring.  I finish by adding a succulent defining lip color.  (Actually, I usually say I swab the decks but that doesn’t sound very sophisticated . . .)

When I leave the bathroom, my eyes sparkle with light.  My complexion glows.  I’m off for a great day at work.

When I trudge home at 6:00 p.m., nary a sign of make-up can be found on my face.  It’s back to the blah, boring, brown-ness of me.  Where did all that color go?

Did the ‘ugly’ fairies swing by rappel lines from my eyebrows with rags in their little hands to scrub off my eye shadow?  Do they skate across my cheekbones with buffing cloths wrapped around their feet to remove all traces of blush and foundation?  Do they take hammer and chisel to chip off my mascara?

Do they spray cans and cans of ‘naturalizer’ onto my face to bring out every freckle, pimple, and blemish that I so craftily hid with concealer?  Do they use Harry Potter’s invisiblity cloak to hide the make-up so that everyone see the real me instead?

You, my Dear Reader, would probably tell me that my skin absorbs my make-up.  To that, I say hogwash.

If you spill red Kook-Aid on white carpet, the carpet absorbs the Kook-Aid.  But you can still see the red punch.

If I splash grape juice from my sippie cup at breakfast onto my white corporate blouse and I wipe off the grape juice, you can still see the purple blotch on my blouse because it has absorbed the grape juice.

When my children wear white socks while jumping off red sand dunes in Moab, no amount of bleach or Tide will make them white because the socks have absorbed that Moab sandstone red-ness into the very fiber of their being.

So, once again I ask:  Where does my make-up go by the end of the day?

By the way, wrinkled was not one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up . . .