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Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Mom Makeover: The Road from Ho-Hum to Hawt

One of the best pieces of parenting advice I got from my mother involved mascara.

I've shared my opinions on mom jeans, Keds, denim jumpers and the like. I don't believe that being a mother is license to be a frump. We all take a few steps away from our dry clean only wardrobe once we have children, but it's not necessary to trade in fab for frump. Yet all too often, it happens. Like back fat. It just creeps up on you before you realize that everything in your closet has an elastic waistband. When we stop putting ourselves first, we plummet to stretchy pant hell.

I'm guilty as charged. To a certain extent.

I recently embarked on a journey with a few other women to do a Mom Makeover. Nothing extreme to walk the catwalk or sport a tiara. Just a simple makeover that's realistic for a mother who spends her time in car pool, at the park, or on a date. I was hoping to transform a couple moms who could go from "Park to Party" in a flash.

With the help of Jill, Joanna, Pam, and Amanda, we pulled it off for our first contestant on Park to Partay!

Meet Liz.


36-year old mother of a three-year old daughter and 5-month old infant son. Liz is tired. She's been feeling frumpy and is scrounging up the time and energy to hit the gym again. Her own sister in law even threatened to turn her over to What Not to Wear. Ouch! Liz knows there's a sprinkle of her former self sparkling in there somewhere.

We were there to help Liz regain her shimmer so she can put some shimmy back in her step.

Meet our makeover team.

Jill, owner of hairdos. Before Jill pulled out her scissors she talked to Liz to get a sense of her style, preferences, and lifestyle. Clearly Jill took the time to know the client first instead of treating her head as a canvas with license to chop. We've all been in a salon seat like that, right? Jill gave Liz a kicky little cut and even gave her options to wear her hair up or down. Options are good. Did I mention that Liz donated a whopping 11 inches of her mane to Locks of Love? I know how freeing it is to cut off all that hair. The key thing about the magic that Jill worked is that she kept Liz's hair maintenance free. After all, what mom wants to deal with a high maintenance hair style that involves multiple gooey products and various electrical devices? It's a wash and go cut that will grow out lovely, meaning Liz can look good while not swapping out style for sleep.





Joanna, makeup artist and owner of Look at Me Makeup. And I don't use the word artist lightly. Every girl dreams of the make up case Joanna was toting. Oh, the creams and powders and shadows and blushes and liners! Some of her go-to products to make us moms look more awake than we feel: mascara, concealer, blush, lip gloss, moisturizer! Also, maintain those brows, ladies. Like Jill, Joanna focused on making Liz's makeup regimen fast and easy. Wearing makeup doesn't have to be a 30-minute ordeal that requires paint brushes and spackling. I don't even own blush and I've never put a drop of foundation on my face in my life, yet I think I don't look half bad. Joanna gave Liz makeup tips that fit her lifestyle and schedule. The beauty is that she also gave Liz tips on how to turn the makeup amp up to 11 for date night. Va va va voom! Again, options are good.




Pam, owner of Dress. and fashionista extraordinaire. Pam is that rare blend of fashion and frugal. Pam's shop perches at the intersection of Quality Road, Style Boulevard, and Affordability Avenue. Dress. is a lovely little boutique that features consigned and new designer clothes, shoes, and handbags. And boy are the brands in there mouth watering! Pam, having the honor of being my most fashionable friend (who is blessed with lean long legs and a tiny waist...damn her), not only sells the clothes, she helps with personal styling too. She gave Liz so many fantastic options that it was nearly impossible to make a choice. Sometimes options aren't so good. ;-) The ticket was to find Liz an outfit that's comfortable, versatile, fun, and easy. Do you see a trend here? Perhaps the best testimonial is that I left Dress. with the most perfect little black dress, and our photographer bought three! Ooh la la.





Amanda of Amanda Olson Photography. She's one helluva talented photographer whom I'm going to hire to take my headshot for my book jacket one day. Amanda captured not only the activities of the day, but the spirit as well. Though she and I were in the same room, her eyes saw things mine did not. She really has a storytelling gift. Amanda's photos were simply glorious. There's nothing phony or diva about her, but she is a true artist. You have no idea how hard it was to select photos for this post. Every single shot rocked. I kid you not. I'd pepper my walls with Amanda's photos and spent a good hour just perusing her gallery on her site. Poor Amanda will now have to chase my two sons and a pesky dog to capture some family shots this fall. You can see more photos from our day here.

So the key is this: style and comfort are not mutually exclusive. We owe it to ourselves to put our best face on and our best foot forward. Clad in a touch of mascara and some swoon worthy shoes.

Motherhood is hot. Bring it.




Mom Makeover: The Road from Ho-Hum to HawtSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Monday, October 5, 2009

What My Bathroom Cabinet Doesn't Say About Me

I'm not much of a prissy girl. With this new haircut of mine I really don't need much more than a dime size drop of drugstore gel and my fingers to get gussied up. Did I just say "gussied up?" Indeed I did. And I meant it. My entire regimen in the morning is 30 minutes, tops. Even on my wedding day. I guess you might think I didn't care or look all that great. But the reality is that I wanted to look like me in my photos, not some Glamour Shot glimpse of a girl I knew for a mere 24 hours. And for the record, I think I looked pretty good on that hot March day back in 2000 in Key West. Whether I still fit into that sheath of a dress is another story.

Despite what you might think or what my friend Will proclaims to all who will listen, I am a relatively low maintenance woman. Black tie gala with Mac Daddy, jaunt around the lake with the boys, or brunch with girlfriends, it will take me 30 minutes to get ready. In a crunch I can do it in 20.

Try me.

So all this leaves me wondering why I have so much crap in various size bins under the cabinet on my side of the bathroom sink. You know by now that I am a neat freak and I love compartments so everything has a home. No random bottles or potions stacked upon each other every which way on my watch. I did a quick inventory today, and this is what I found:

  • nail polish (15 bottles, 5 of them red)
  • nail polish remover (acetone free, 2 bottles)
  • 2 sets of foam toe separators
  • 2 bags of cotton balls
  • box of Qtips
  • bag of make up sponges
  • 1 bottle eye makeup remover
  • 1 pouch of makeup wipes
  • tray of makeup, including 4 mascaras (2 of which are Lash Exact), 6 liquid eyeliners (4 of them black), various brushes (I don't use anything that requires a brush so I'm not sure why I have all these. Also 4 eyeshadow palettes; I don't even know how to apply eye shadow.)
  • 3 bottles of face cream in varying SPF ratings
  • spray water bottle
  • 1 large tub Aquaphor
  • 2 bottles of lotion
  • 1 bottle of rubbing alcohol
  • 1 bottle of witch hazel (What the hell is this stuff even for?!)
  • 1 eyelash curler (never used for fear of blinding myself)
  • 2 pots of hair wax or some such thing
  • 1 bottle of spray hair gel
  • 1 tube of hair gel
  • 1 unopened tube of black hair color (the temporary kind you brush on with a mascara wand looking thing...I'm pretty sure I specially ordered this from the salon.)
  • 2 shower scrubby/spongey thingees
  • 1 huge can of hairspray (unopened)
  • 1 bottle of mousse (Not the chocolate kind, unfortunately.)
  • 2 bottles of face wash
  • 1 pot of cucumber eye gel
  • 3 tubes of eye cream
  • 1 tube of eye gel
  • 1 pot of night cream
  • 2 sticks of deodorant (Degree and Secret for a "pit off." So far Secret is winning.)
  • 1 bottle of neck and decolletage cream (I couldn't make this up.)
  • 1 flattening iron (I have hair shorter than most boys so this will do me no good.)
  • 3 hairbrushes in various textures, sizes, and shapes
  • 5 combs, unsure of origin
So what's a girl like me doing with a veritable pharmacy of beauty products? My cabinet looks as if I looted a Walgreens delivery truck. Granted, most of the products are unused. I don't even know what to do with half the stuff. I shower, lotion up, put on some sunscreen and eyecream, concealer under my eyes, a swipe of black eyeliner, a coat of mascara, lip balm, finger comb some gel in my hair, roll on deodorant and am out the door. Well, I do get dressed, natch.

Is it hard wired in all women to flock to the health & beauty aisle and just stock up on crap we don't need? Is this why Mary Kay and Avon are so popular? I admit to having a slight orgasmic reaction in Sephora or Ulta stores, even though I don't know what any of the stuff is for. What makes us buy all these lotions and potions and gels and creams? I am not generally a sucker, but my bathroom cabinet would prove otherwise. I look at that cache and am left wondering who the hell I am? Tell me I'm not alone.

Conversely, under Mac Daddy's sink:

  • 1 bottle of lotion (Unused. I bought it and put it there so he'd moisturize in winter. He hasn't. Ever.)
  • 1 bottle of SPF 30 face cream (Ditto above.)
  • 1 can shaving cream (top off)
  • 1 razor
  • deodorant


I wonder what an anthropologist would say about us? I'm a consumer researcher by day, and I sure know how I'd sum us up.

But I'd be totally wrong.

Simply having the trappings doesn't make a girl prissy. I know this much is true.






What My Bathroom Cabinet Doesn't Say About MeSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

How I Lost 11 Inches in a Day

I did something drastic recently. Yes, drastic.

I lost 11 inches.

And I'm not talking waist line (not that I couldn't use it).

I'm for sure not talking height or I'd be writing to you propped up on a couple of phone books like I did in driver's ed (cuz I'd be 4'1).

Read on, friends...

You gotta love a place that gives out Blo Pops to every client. This, plus the massage shampoo chairs, wine, and water with a slice of lemon, fantastic music, and oh, the awesome staff and haircuts too. This place is totally worth the drive. And you know that means a lot from me because I rarely leave my five mile radius of convenience.

This is the scene of the incident. Where I took drastic measures. But thankfully not into my own hands.

This is me. I'm wearing a cape, which is as close to a super hero as I'll ever get. Please ignore my dark circles. I blame my mother for them. As in genetics, not that she's personally responsible for my stress and lack of sleep.

Meet Rachael. She freaking rocks. She's a hot mama of two. And did I mention she rocks? If I had a million dollars to blo (get it? ha ha!) I'd build a house for Rachael right next to mine so she could do my hair everyday and be my Ken Paves.


Here's my 11 inches. My ponytail died a peaceful death surrounded by supportive friends and the bass of an awesome farewell soundtrack.

This is me feeling freedom for the first time in years. This style might have worked in the 80s with the whole bi-level shag thing going on. But Rachael wouldn't leave me hanging like that. And wow does my hair look shiny. Must be the flash.

See how happy I am. I don't usually go around hugging my stylist, but this outcome deserved it.

Check us out. A picture of perfection. My smile is not fake. Rachael's might be because I think I am encroaching on her personal space and I'm not wearing that protective cape. Also, do you see how we are both short? I love friends who don't tower over me. I don't experience that often. I do, however, think this hair style makes me look tall. OK, tallish.

And voila! Me. Rocking a short do and loving it. LOVING it! I need new earrings and necklaces now. Another reason to shop. Just what Mac Daddy wants to hear.

And those 11 inches didn't end up in a Hefty garbage bag or clogging some drain. They're on their way to Locks of Love. My shorn locks will be made into a wig for a lucky kid somewhere. Hopefully not for someone with naturally blonde eyebrows.
How I Lost 11 Inches in a DaySocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Bra Makers Take Note


My new bloggy friend San Diego Momma inspires me every Tuesday. 10 minutes. 250 words or fewer. One letter of complaint.

Dear Bra Manufacturers,

Must these contraptions be so f-ing uncomfortable? Seriously, wires that dig into my belly shelf, bands that squash my squishy parts, straps that slip off when the wind blows, and cups that crinkle in the wash do not a decent bra make. And don't get me started on the sizing. I worked at Victoria's Secret one summer after college. I know what shenanigans you people are up to.

A bra's intent is to support and shape breasts. Breasts of all women, regardless of age, size, or state of motherhood. Why is it that the only bras that seem to fit are the cute little microfiber ones made for the AAs out there? I'm a solid B, and nothing fits. Nothing. I've been to the German matriarch of the lingerie department to be professionaly felt up (er, fitted) at Nordstrom. I half expected her to whip me with the seamstress tape hanging around her neck. She steered me to the Wacoal section. You know, the $60 bras. Was that Boob Frau on commission?

I'm just asking for a bra that is actually as comfortable as my microfiber Calvin Klein seamless undies. Must looks, comfort, and functionality be mutually exclusive? Let's consider technology today for a moment. We can collect dirt samples from Mars and help a man give birth to a baby girl.

Why are we so rotten to our breasts? Surely we owe them more than you offer.

Uncomfortably yours,

Momma Dirt & Noise






If you want to read a real letter of complaint I wrote a while ago, take a look here. Warning: it's long.

September 29, 2006

Gerard J. Arpey
American Airlines
333 Amon Carter Boulevard
Fort Worth, TX 76155

Re: Customer Feedback

Dear Mr. Arpey,

Is American Airlines so successful that the company is ready to bid farewell to an entire segment of customers? Does the customer matter at all? If you’re trying to discourage families with children from flying on American Airlines, you’ve accomplished your goal. Just note that you might want to rethink your “Customer Service Plan.”

Customer Service Plan
American Airlines and American Eagle are in business to provide safe, dependable, and friendly air transportation to our customers, along with numerous related services. We are dedicated to making every flight you take with us something special. Your safety, comfort, and convenience are our most important concerns.

I was flying with my two sons, ages 3 and 15 months, from Chicago’s O’Hare to Raleigh/Durham on Tuesday, September 19 at 12:35 PM. Since my husband had to stay on in Chicago for business, we chose a direct flight for the sake of everyone’s sanity and comfort. It was our first time flying as a threesome, though we have traveled across the country extensively as a family. My boys are already seasoned travelers and like many children, they are fascinated with planes and pilots. They were excited, not wary, of the trip. I, on the other hand, was wary. I prayed for timeliness, good behavior, cooperation, and the kindness of strangers.

As an über-prepared mom, I packed all the essentials and tricks to keep the boys safe, fed, clean, and occupied. Now imagine this, I am a five foot tall, 100 pound woman carting a lot of gear for the flight – stroller, backpack that was stretched to the max, and a child’s backpack full of toys and books, not to mention two small kids in tow. The boys were both well dressed and well behaved – model citizens to make a mom proud.

We normally fly on Delta, where the service and help have been impeccable. Someone is there to help us get situated, fold the stroller, chat with the kids, and even hold the baby if necessary. Even from my days as a frequent business traveler, Delta was my carrier of choice. Call me spoiled, but I had grown accustomed to such stellar customer care. And yes, I choose my words wisely; I mean care.

My experience on American Airlines was quite the opposite. There was no chitchat with the kids or offers of help. Sure, not everyone likes children, I didn’t either until I had my own, but I expected some grain of care and assistance when a mother is traveling alone with two small boys who are helpless on their own. And keep in mind that my children were cooperative and well behaved.

Here’s how my American Airlines experience played out:

1) I managed to get through security with two children in tow who, like I, had to take off their shoes and be cajoled through the metal detector. As you can imagine, it was chaotic trying to get everyone’s shoes back on, setting up the stroller, repacking the laptop and bag that were opened up for screening, and reloading everything. The security personnel was incredibly patient, helpful, and friendly. They helped me set up the stroller and engaged the boys in laughter while I got things settled. Since security was my first stop on this journey, it was encouraging to get through with so much help. I commend O’Hare’s security team for being both thorough and friendly.

2) When the flight was boarding, my three year old said he had to go to the bathroom. Zone 3 was boarding, but we were in Zone 5. I asked the gate agent if we could board early so I could take my son to the bathroom on board the plane. Her curt answer was “You have 15 minutes before the gate closes.” Not quite understanding her point, I asked again if we could board. Keep in mind, time is of the essence when a recently potty trained three-year-old says he has to pee! The gate agent again, more curtly this time, said, “I told you. You have 15 minutes.” I was dumbfounded! This lady was not going to let me board early with two small children, one of whom had to use the bathroom! Luckily we rushed to the bathroom and made the flight in time. Even strangers were gasping at the gate agent’s reaction.

3) Once on board, I was offered no assistance getting my kids situated and buckled in. Note that the flight was not full, and I was the only one traveling with children. And by the way, I purchased three seats for our family to allow the most comfort for fellow passengers and us. For the wellbeing of my children and all passengers on board, I planned to travel during my baby’s nap time. He was sleeping soundly over my shoulder just before take off. I was holding him securely with both arms wrapped tightly around his back and waist. Note that a rear-facing infant is the safest position for car travel so I figured the same must hold true on a flight.

The flight attendant woke up my child and made me turn him around for take off. Needless to say, he was cranky (who wouldn’t be if you were suddenly jarred from a much need slumber?!) and could not get back to sleep. This left me with a cranky baby on my hands, and the plane got an earful of whimpering for two hours. Of course I want to honor safety first. I take no issue with doing whatever the rules dictate to follow safety guidelines. If indeed facing forward is the safest, I should have been the one to awake my son and try to reposition him. Instead, he was startled awake by a complete stranger in his face.

4) When the flight attendants brought out refreshments, I asked for a small bottle of water for the three of us to share. She gesticulated pointing to the whole plane and rudely said, “I only have a large bottle of water for the whole plane.” Every other flight I have taken provides small individual bottles of water so I didn’t think I was asking for anything special. Then I asked for one small cup with no ice. Then the flight attendant accusingly asked, “So you didn’t bring your own cups?” What ?! I did bring cups of milk for my children but was unable to load up on anything but essentials for this trip. Like I said, I’ve always had small bottles of water on every other flight. So, in the end we got one cup of water with ice.

The cart was gone before I could ask for a cup with no ice as I originally requested. Now imagine balancing this ice and water filled cup with a squirmy baby on my lap. I was trying to give my children a drink without spilling. Most importantly, I was trying to keep my laptop dry, which is the one thing that kept my three-year-old entertained, quiet, and well behaved for the duration of the flight.

5) After we deplaned, I was waiting for our stroller. And by the way, my three-year-old thanked the flight attendants and pilots without being prompted by me – another model citizen moment to make a mom proud. We were still waiting when the last people left the plane. The flight attendant asked me why I was just standing on the jet way so I explained we were waiting for the stroller. She shrugged and did nothing. The guy who brought out the jet way ended up going downstairs to get my stroller. He opened it up for me and apologized profusely.

Not one flight attendant or crew member was helpful from the gate at O’Hare to the jet way at RDU. In fact, I sensed hostility towards us from the beginning. My children were well behaved except for some fussiness from the baby. There were no meltdowns, screaming fits, whining, or uncontrollable crying. There was admittedly non-stop chatter from my three-year-old until we could turn on a DVD, but that is to be understood by anyone who has experienced the curiosity and wonder of a child. Fellow passengers were courteous, understanding, and even helpful. The kindness of strangers was underscored, while the rudeness of paid professionals was disappointing.

Is this the brand experience your big marketing dollars support? Are utterly poor service and rude behavior the hallmarks of American’s brand promise? Do you see no equity in your brand after all these years? Is it really just about dollars and cents; are people (customers!) out of the equation? So much for lifetime customer value (remember, my children are already frequent flyers, and their mom is a marketer).

I won’t choose or recommend American Airlines again, even if that means I forego a cheaper fare. The bulk of customer compromises just aren’t worth it. I’m going to stick with Delta, who never fails to deliver at every customer touch point. And believe me, everyone I know will hear an earful about this travel experience. Hopefully you can make amends to welcome other families traveling. “Something special in the air” takes on a whole new meaning now.


Regards,
Ilina
Mother, Seasoned Traveler, Influencer, Marketer


PS
I’ve sent this letter to Delta too so they know they’re doing something right.



cc:
Isabella D. Goren
Daniel P. Garton
Ralph L. Richardi


Jerry Grinstein
Lee Mackenczak

The Outcome:
American Airlines sent a form letter (postcard, actually). Several months later I got a $100 voucher with no letter or instructions for use. Turns out I had to redeem the damn certificate at the airport. A customer compromise even when it's an apology (lame as it was)!

Delta's president Fed Exed a handwritten note and two remote control airplanes and T-shirts to Bird and Deal. I love that the shirts were printed in retro airplane graphics instead of Delta branded merchandise. Still have those planes in the toy box. Still love Delta.
Bra Makers Take NoteSocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Monday, July 21, 2008

Don't cha wish your momma were hot like me?

These were the best of times. These were the worst of times. I'd like to share two tales of hotness lost.

First, picture this. Six moms dressed like single lady hotties. Dresses cut high enough to show off some pilates gams. Halter tops cut down just so to show off some flirty, sun drenched cleavage. I'm talkin' dry clean only attire here. Dangly earrings with no risk of toddler hands ripping them out. Heels stacked, stilettoed, wedged, and highly hot. Nothing more than a clutch to tote the requisite lipstick, cell phone, and Amex card. Not a diaper bag in sight. Not a bag of Goldfish to be seen. Even I stashed away Chapstick in favor of Smashbox lipstick in the perfect shade, Lavish. Makes me wanna lick my lips just thinking about that pouty pucker.

That night we were high flying women ordering up every colorful martini on the menu. After a couple cocktails we were even getting cheeky with the waiter, who was literally young enough to be my son. And I'm not talking teen pregnancy. Geez, how young are kids these days?! The girls were back and ready to roll. For one short night were were giggly girlfriends, watermelon martini warriors, sexy chicas with a barrel of confidence and a surprise stash of sex appeal. We were frolicking and fancy free, enjoying every bit of attention our hoopla was garnering.

Damn, we felt HOT. In fact, we WERE hot. Boob sweat in August heat in North Carolina hot. Vindaloo hot. Penn Badgely's abs hot. Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle.

And so we trapsed from one bar to another, ready to settle into the supple leather bar stools and order an insanely tasty (and might I add potent?) mojito. The six of us were a picture of moxie indeed. Sassy, smart, sexy women, not moms, for a night. Purrrr.....

Enter buzz kill stage left.

Two semi-grease balls who looked like they hock cameras from a seedy storefront in Jersey stopped to get a taste of the eye candy that was us. We flippantly ignored them, used to the attention, natch. Every one of us, however, stood a tish straighter and laughed a bit more joyously just to cement to those dudes what they'd be dreaming about that night. We were totally basking, drowning even, in our hotness.

"So, moms' night out, huh?" exclaimed grease ball #1.

"Hardy har har har!" gulumphed grease ball #2.

G-U-L-P.

And so our bubble of hotness popped. It not only lost its air; it sadly deflated in slow motion, left hanging like our baby suckled breasts. Our swagger turned to slumped shoulder stutter step. Luster lost. Here we thought were hot WOMEN, and those grease balls pegged us for moms immediately. I still can't put my finger on the dead giveaway. We should have cuffed them and made a citizen's arrest. The charge? Buzz killers.

So you tell me, is being a mom mutually exclusive from being a hottie?

This second tale of hotness lost comes from my friend Allie. I don't think she'll mind my sharing it.

Allie got to head to the sunny state of California for 5-day business conference. Almost a full week of kid-free responsibility. So what if the days were peppered with dull conferences and dweeby sales guys? At night the wine and steak juices flowed. Evening conversation centered on drug therapies, and the days were filled with retail therapy. No one cared that Greg would not be touring with the Wiggles this year or that the neighbor kid's birthday party was Sunday at 6:00. No one needed her grapes cut in half or mouth wiped.

This was a week to learn, of course; it was a company-paid conference (aka boondoggle) after all. But it was also a weekend to fall asleep to Entourage blaring on the TV, a night without the stirring of a baby monitor to jostle her from her slumber, the pleasure of a long, slow cabernet buzz, frou frou dinner on someone else's tab, shoes too insensible to wear to the playground, skirts too short to squat down to tie a shoe, and lipstick instead of Aquaphor, perhaps even a flirty spritz of Jo Malone Verbenas of Provence. Oh, if only blog technology had a smell feature! You would be titillated, I assure you.

So one evening Allie is hanging out at one of those typical conference wine and smile get-to-know-you events. She's dazzling in a hot little number that had no risk of mac n' cheese hands wrecking it. A dress that would make her husband order champagne instead of beer. A dress that her husband would think looks better on the floor...wink, wink. She so had it going on. Allie is a hottie to start with, mind you. That dress was nothing more than frosting. She was enjoying a glass of vino, chatting with her boss, relishing the freedom of an evening without responsibility. It was then she noticed him noticing her. Yes, he was definitely looking, and it was obvious. Allie's boss tuned in too.

I imagine a slight blush crept over Allie's face, adorned with a simple swipe of liquid black eye liner and a touch of creamy lipstick. That man. That man was checking her out! Yeah, he was digging her. He was so hoping to get his groove on. And so her confidence soared. She and her boss giggled in hushed tones and wondered what the guy's story was. Allie is a married woman, after all. She repositioned so he could clearly see her wedding ring. Allie is not a cheating kind of girl, mind you, but a bit of attention when you know you look hot is simply an innocent self esteem boost.

No matter where Allie flitted throughout the ballroom, his eyes followed. Soon others were taking note as well. And then more eyes followed her. Imagine her exploding confidence and hotness, absorbing the attention. Loving it. Feeling like a most excellent blend of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda.

That's when her boss noticed something BIG. Mouth agape, speechless, BIG. All she could do was point in horror.

Allie is a lovely woman and a looker by any definition, alas it was not her charm nor good looks that garnered all that ogling.

Her dress, that hot, kicky little number, was tucked up into her panties. Her butt cheek was hanging out, advertising the goods beneath the dress! And no, she was not sporting lacy La Perlas. Nothing racy in any way. Paul Frank's chipmunk days of the week underwear (that she swears are the most comfortable underwear ever!) were peeking out for the whole conference to see. A cartoon chipmunk adorning her ass. All the geeky sales reps were taking it in, and not a one of 'em could muster up the courage (or decency!) to alert her!

Hysterical, yes. Hot, no.
Don't cha wish your momma were hot like me?SocialTwist Tell-a-Friend

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Everybody's All American








I grew up in a cul de sac neighborhood eating Ho Hos, hot dogs, and PBJs like all the other kids on the block. I played Atari and stayed up late to watch Friday Night Videos. I begged my mom for Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Nike sneakers. I had a massive crush on Shaun Cassidy. I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, even sold cookies door to door. I played field hockey and lacrosse. I went to prom, three times. I pledged my undying love to a sorority. I went to fraternity formals and tailgates. I was a school crossing guard and ran for class president. I oohed and aahed at fireworks every July 4th and eagerly tore into presents every December 25th. I ate up American history class (thanks to the fabulous Ms. Malone) and registered to vote as soon as I turned 18.

You could say I lived the all-American life, cliches and all.

I wasn't born an American. I was raised one.

If you want to get technical, I was born in Calcutta, India (a place the Department of Homeland Security fiercely scrutinizes in terms of immigration now). I've been in the States for 39 years. It is my home. While I look Indian, I am all American. I speak like an American, butchering a French accent as much as my classmates did; I even have a surprise Southern drawl if I have a few too many Yuenglings with my neighbors. I married an American (from the Heartland, doesn't get more American than that!). I have two boys who are first generation American. I have an American passport. To the world, I am officially American, on paper.

My children are 100% American, no matter how you look at it (or them). Sure, they are bi-racial, I suppose. I don't think of them in that way. Apparently many people do. Some people have even asked me if I'm their nanny. In typical Mac Daddy fashion, he says it's because I look too good to have had two kids. Ha! He just knows what to say to get him some hot action. This was a timely article in our local paper, considering an exchange I had with a neighbor Friday night.

Picture this: Four families sitting around the yard, chowing down some pepperoni pizza and cracking open some Miller High Lifes, children running amok, neighbors stopping by to say hey. The conversation turned to the movie "Star Wars." Mac Daddy proudly said he's never seen it (It's a point of pride and conviction for him at this point.). Oh, the crowd went wild, jeering him for being so out of touch with possibly the greatest piece of pop culture ever. I chimed in with "I hated Star Wars."

Jokingly, a friend said that hating Star Wars was practically unAmerican. Ha ha ha. We had a good laugh at that Chuck. Then another neighbor pipes in with, "Of course it's unAmerican. Look at who you're talking to."

Silence struck. All the fun and folly evaporated at that instant. I could feel my eyes on fire, my skin crawling, my heart racing, my teeth clenching, my brain reeling, my angry words swirling in my brain. I burst. How could I not?

I retorted with an emphatic, "Actually, I AM American."

"Well, not really. You weren't born here."

"That's not the only thing that makes someone American."

"Well, you're not American like I am."

"I didn't realize there were degrees of American-ness. I have lived here for 39 years. I was BRED an American. I lived all but one year outside of this country when I was a baby!" I was screaming now.

"Well, you weren't born here. You missed a year here." Was she seriously arguing this point?!

"Oh, I see. You absorbed all your American-ness in that impressionable first year of life.'

"Yes, that's it." Really?! Are you freaking kidding me? Does she really think this? Should I smack her or what?

"You know what? I actually represent the REAL America. The one that is based on the melting pot and freedom and immigration to a new world? You know, the one in history books regaling stories of Ellis Island and the first settlers? I am as American as they come and don't ever tell me otherwise. My family CHOSE to be American, never taking it for granted for one single second."

With that I stomped inside, fighting back tears. How could she question my identity?

In this day of mixed races, ethnicities, and religions among families, there are no easy physical identifiers anymore. Isn't that the beauty of our country? Is that not our brand? My heritage will always be Indian, and don't get me wrong, I'm damn proud of it. For starters, our cuisine and literary contributions to the planet far exceed America's. My neighbor likely sees that as not being proud of my country. Well you know what? Sometimes I'm not proud of my country. I'm certainly not proud of the numbskulls running it right now. What makes me proud is that I am free to state my opinion without fear of retribution.

I campaign fiercely in every election, taking time off from my paying job. Would I do that if I weren't an American who cared about her country and wanted to protect it? I am a proud American. Patriotic songs make me cry, and they did even before 9/11. When I was a kid I won a Mini Page contest for the Fourth of July. I took a popular car commercial of the day and drew pictures to go along with it as my way to depict America (Clearly advertising and marketing spoke to me from a young age.). I won the contest and got my picture and photo printed in the paper. I think my mom still has the clipping. She was that proud.

Now don't go telling me I'm not American.
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Saturday, January 12, 2008

Mount Vesuvius





Though Age 40 is flirting with my reality, breathing its hot, sultry air on my neck, I still have Mount Vesuvius erupting on my chin. I haven't paid attention to a Clearsil ad in decades. Luckily, I have been pretty blessed with good skin. No sun worhshipping in my teens, daily moisturizer with UV protection (dedicated fan of Oil of Olay!), and my mother's good genes all contribute to my pretty healthy, blemish-free skin. By the way, Mom, we're so on to you smoking, despite your youthful skin. Suddenly I have a zit. A humdinger one at that. I'm talking the zit that you see in the sidebar of Webster's when you look up zit in the dictionary. I make a perfect "before" picture for any dermatologist developing her own line of adult acne medication.

Last night as I was lamenting (some might say whining) about this aberration on my chin. My husband stroked my hand and assured me that it wasn't so bad. "Not even the worst I've ever seen on you," he said (or lied). I took comfort in that and thought maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Fast forward to 7:30 this morning. Bird wakes up with that adorable half awake/half asleep crumpled look as he scampers into our room. He climbs into bed, snuggles in and gets comfortable. I give him a kiss, and he stares at me aghast and starts cracking up. "What's THAT on your chin?!" he manages to get out amid laughter and horror. I told him it's called a zit. A mere boo-boo on my face. He's too young to understand that zits are one of many of life's little cruelties. Right up there with ear hair and fat thighs (grade A chicken thighs as I like to call them) despite hours of cardio and five million squats, not that I have firsthand knowledge of either. But I digress...

Five minutes later, Deal comes in and clambers into bed. He takes one look at me and is clearly startled. He pokes his chubby little finger right into Mount Vesuvius (OUCH) and asks "What's that red thing on your face, Mommy?" "A zit," I say, now getting weary of this game. I shot an accusing glance toward my husband, while he pretended to fiddle with the sheets and not notice me...or Mount Vesuvius on the verge of eruption.

Lesson learned: A loving husband boosts his wife's ego (let's face it, because no woman who feels unattractive wants to participate in hot action later on). Children tell it like it is.
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