My Unit and I enjoyed a nice, relatively quiet 4th of July yesterday. We worked on the house, going through the pile of items my parents brought with them 3 weeks ago ("you might need it!"). That took a couple of hours, complete with smoke/drink breaks. We tried (semi-successfully) to use our new charcoal grill (note to self: I am far too impatient for this charcoal nonsense; I miss my gas grill).
There were loud booms of fireworks, but it was so incredibly different from the city. Instead of a barrage of sounds for three days straight, at all times of day and night, things mostly started after 8 p.m. And yes, they were loud -- bigger, more professional grade pyrotechnics -- but also farther away. No one was shooting them right outside our house or in the dumpster in the alley. Our dogs didn't like the noises, of course, but it was much more manageable. Not the 75+ pounds of shaking, panting dogs like before. That was a nice change.
And now it's July 5th. I'm back at work. And it's been one year. Sometime during this day, one year ago, you went ahead and decided to pull the trigger. Literally. I don't know if it was during the morning (those are hardest for me) or during the night (those were hardest for you) or sometime in between, when you crawled into your bathtub, pulled the shower curtain closed, and put a pistol in your mouth. Pulling the curtain closed was so you; it minimized the mess for those who had to clean up afterward. Considerate to the very end. They told me you even left your laptop and cell phone on the office desk, passwords and things all organized and easily accessible. This was no rash act; you had planned.
I wouldn't find any of this out until late at night on the 6th. I had gone to bed ridiculously early because I was worn out from a doctor's appointment and blood draw earlier in the day. My phone kept going off, so finally, by around 10:30 p.m. I said, "What?!??" to my phone and looked at it. Looked at the flood of messages. "Do you know yet?"
"Are you okay?"
"Oh my God."
It took some scrolling to get to the heart of the matter, and I went cold with shock. Then I had to go to the living room, wake my sleeping Unit on the couch, and in a state of half-asleep, tell her that you had killed yourself. That you were gone. And she cried out -- literally cried out -- "Noooo!" in a high-pitched tone that she rarely uses because it's completely unfiltered emotion, almost keening.
And I just sat on the bed and stared later while she cried. "Why aren't you crying??" she asked me. I couldn't. Just shock. I couldn't even mourn until the next afternoon (July 7th). I made an emergency visit with my therapist and just sobbed on her couch. "I don't know what to do with this!" I said.
And I didn't.
Sometimes I still don't.
I don't know how to handle the weight of this information, the raw emotional burden of this act of violence, of desperation, of finality. Do I talk about it? Do I hold it close? "What am I supposed to do?" I kept saying over and over again.
I still don't know.
My therapist asked, in terms of "doing something," were there other people who might be affected that I might want to reach out to? "Are any of your friends a suicide risk?"
"Well, according to the messages I've been getting, it's me," I said with a tearful laugh. Gallows humor.
Thank you to the handful of people who texted me personally during the aftermath. "Are you okay?" and "How are you doing?" are code for "checking in on you." And I greatly appreciate it. One of the major triggers for suicides is...other suicides. So I know what you were doing, and I appreciate it more than I can adequately say. You know who are you.
I am not the spokesperson for depression, mental health, and/or suicide attempts. Not really. It's a burden I bear relatively quietly; transparency is all good in theory, but I don't do it a lot of it in real life. But it's here. It's me. Hello, my name is Leonard, and I'm mentally ill.
The evening of the 7th a handful of us closest would gather near, drink wine, and read over the statement to be released about your death. And I cried reading it aloud, but I was so very grateful that it acknowledged everything that had happened. It needed to be said aloud.
And then we heard the entire story, the process over three days of what had happened. No gratuitous, gory details; just the facts, ma'am, hard, cold, horrible facts. I needed to hear them. I requested to know the details; I needed to know to make sense of it all, and GFB obliged.
There would be more crying; not quite as much drinking as I would have imagined. And then, exactly one week later, a tree would destroy my house, nearly kill my Unit, and our lives would be uprooted and changed, again, forever. Was that you? I often wonder. You knew how we felt about living in the city.
And another week after that, six of us would get covered in sweat and dirt and dust while completely cleaning out your apartment.
Sometimes it's like you're not really gone. You still show up on m "On This Day" on Facebook: your posts with jokes about grammar and cats and knitting. I still remember your last text to me ("Fabulous job tonight, as always! Thanks for all you do," after last year's theatre crawl). And I swear, I could have rounded the corner into the office next to the dressing room just the other week and found you there, typing away. But you weren't.
I said hello to you anyway, just in case.
One year. 525,600 minutes (thanks for counting, Rent!). I don't have anything profound to say.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Playing Possum
Last night, I came directly home after the show because I was hot and tired and in pain. I was just going to take the dogs out and then go to bed, no excitement.....EXCEPT
...within seconds of being outside, Dogzilla has something in her mouth; 2 seconds after that, the circus dog wants in on the action. I yell at her, which just makes her play with it more. There's no squeaking or anything, so maybe it's not an animal? (Or maybe it's already dead.)
I approach her slowly because if you run at her, she'll just run across our gianormous yard (with thing still in her mouth), thinking it's a game. As soon as I'm within arm's length, I grab her collar, saying "Drop it." But I can't see what "it" is (it's super dark outside at 10:30 p.m. in the county, y'all). It's clear she's not going to leave it alone, so I prepare to drag/walk her inside by the collar. Except she doesn't have her regular collar on (WTF?!?), something I failed to notice to before going outside. So I lead her by the glow-in-dark LED collar we make them both wear at night (see above: dark outside), but gingerly because
I passive-aggressively wake up my sleeping Unit by saying loudly, "Rosie, where is your collar??" A groggy, "Oh, it's in here" comes as a response.
"She found something in the yard," I announce. "I don't know what it is," but I grab my phone and go outside to find out if it's still there or what.
My phone isn't giving enough light (and I deleted the flashlight app a long time ago), so I use the flash on the camera by snapping two quick pics revealing "it" to be....
a smallish possum.
Shit.
Back inside. "It's a possum," I announce. "Rosie killed a possum. Or maybe it was already dead; I don't know."
Groggy mumbling in return.
And now I'm torn. I don't want to go back outside, in the dark, and put the dead body in the trash can. What if it's not really dead? What if it's just, y'know, "playing possum"? What if I try to grab it and it bites me?? And so I whine. "Do I have to do it now? I don't want to grab it in the dark!"
"But I don't know where it is!" is her rsponse, which translates into: "I don't know what section of the yard to keep Dogzilla away from when I take her out at 4 a.m. because she will immediately try to 'play' with the dead animal again."
"And you're awake!" she adds (no translation necessary).
I sigh. And find the one pink latex kitchen glove we have left (used the others in previous dead-body-tossings) and grab my phone and head back outside for a third time. On my way out, I remember we do actually have a light for the back patio (duh!), so I turn it on in an attempt to make things less icky/scary.
And then I grab a stick from the patio on my way to the possum.
Glove on one hand, stick and camera (using the flash on the "video" part now) in the other, I make my way back to the possum. It's still there. So I poke at it with a stick.
Nothing.
Poke. Poke.
Still nothing.
Damn, it looks really gross. Is it breathing? I can't tell. What if it bites me?!?!
Oh God.
And randomly, Damn, its tail is tail is a lot longer than I thought it would be.
Still using the phone for a light and keeping the stick for "self-defense," I very slowly pick up the possum's limp, furry body with my gloved hand.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.
Nothing happens, but the possum is bigger than my hand. So it's not a baby. Maybe a teenaged possum? (In its defense, Leonard does have delicate, lady-like hands.)
I'm standing, possum in one (gloved) hand, phone and stick in the other (non-gloved) hand and I find myself at a (figurative) cross-road. Do I put the possum in one of our trash bins, like we have previous dead animals? Or do I dump it somewhere else? What if it's not really dead and gets stuck in the trash bin? What if it's not really dead but tossing it over the fence causes a concussion or internal hemorrhaging? What if it IS dead, so who the fuck cares?? Trash bins are to the right; to the left is the edge of yard with a fence and a drainage ditch on the other side. Fence/drainage ditch is closer -- decision made!
I do a weird quick walk/not run to the fence, furry body jiggling in hand and try to "gently" drop the possum over the fence. And I wince. "Sorry, possum!"
Then quickly go back the other direction to the trash bins to ditch my pink latex glove only to discover a giant spider web between trash can and house that I nearly walk into. Jesus!
Glove gone, go back inside. Except I still have to take Dogzilla back outside to pee because she didn't do that the first time around. Fuck. She, of course, inspects the area where the artist formerly known as a possum was hanging out, not believing me as I say repeatedly, "It's gone, Rosie." We come back inside for the fourth and final time.
I wash my hands, put on pj's, and then -- convinced that I'm going to have nightmares about possums -- look up on my phone (whilst lying in bed) how to tell if possums are really dead or just "playing" dead.
90% sure said possum was just "playing" dead (thanks, Interwebs!).
Update from this morning: possum is no longer in the ditch. Either s/he "woke up" and left or some other, larger animal ate it.
Last but not least, this all reminds me of a bit of perfect casting: William Shatner as the father possum in Over the Hedge. He does a Shakespearean-esque death monologue except
...within seconds of being outside, Dogzilla has something in her mouth; 2 seconds after that, the circus dog wants in on the action. I yell at her, which just makes her play with it more. There's no squeaking or anything, so maybe it's not an animal? (Or maybe it's already dead.)
I approach her slowly because if you run at her, she'll just run across our gianormous yard (with thing still in her mouth), thinking it's a game. As soon as I'm within arm's length, I grab her collar, saying "Drop it." But I can't see what "it" is (it's super dark outside at 10:30 p.m. in the county, y'all). It's clear she's not going to leave it alone, so I prepare to drag/walk her inside by the collar. Except she doesn't have her regular collar on (WTF?!?), something I failed to notice to before going outside. So I lead her by the glow-in-dark LED collar we make them both wear at night (see above: dark outside), but gingerly because
- said LED collar can slip right over her head and
- it's also a break-away collar
I passive-aggressively wake up my sleeping Unit by saying loudly, "Rosie, where is your collar??" A groggy, "Oh, it's in here" comes as a response.
"She found something in the yard," I announce. "I don't know what it is," but I grab my phone and go outside to find out if it's still there or what.
My phone isn't giving enough light (and I deleted the flashlight app a long time ago), so I use the flash on the camera by snapping two quick pics revealing "it" to be....
a smallish possum.
Shit.
Back inside. "It's a possum," I announce. "Rosie killed a possum. Or maybe it was already dead; I don't know."
Groggy mumbling in return.
And now I'm torn. I don't want to go back outside, in the dark, and put the dead body in the trash can. What if it's not really dead? What if it's just, y'know, "playing possum"? What if I try to grab it and it bites me?? And so I whine. "Do I have to do it now? I don't want to grab it in the dark!"
"But I don't know where it is!" is her rsponse, which translates into: "I don't know what section of the yard to keep Dogzilla away from when I take her out at 4 a.m. because she will immediately try to 'play' with the dead animal again."
"And you're awake!" she adds (no translation necessary).
I sigh. And find the one pink latex kitchen glove we have left (used the others in previous dead-body-tossings) and grab my phone and head back outside for a third time. On my way out, I remember we do actually have a light for the back patio (duh!), so I turn it on in an attempt to make things less icky/scary.
And then I grab a stick from the patio on my way to the possum.
Glove on one hand, stick and camera (using the flash on the "video" part now) in the other, I make my way back to the possum. It's still there. So I poke at it with a stick.
Nothing.
Poke. Poke.
Still nothing.
Damn, it looks really gross. Is it breathing? I can't tell. What if it bites me?!?!
Oh God.
And randomly, Damn, its tail is tail is a lot longer than I thought it would be.
Still using the phone for a light and keeping the stick for "self-defense," I very slowly pick up the possum's limp, furry body with my gloved hand.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod.
Nothing happens, but the possum is bigger than my hand. So it's not a baby. Maybe a teenaged possum? (In its defense, Leonard does have delicate, lady-like hands.)
I'm standing, possum in one (gloved) hand, phone and stick in the other (non-gloved) hand and I find myself at a (figurative) cross-road. Do I put the possum in one of our trash bins, like we have previous dead animals? Or do I dump it somewhere else? What if it's not really dead and gets stuck in the trash bin? What if it's not really dead but tossing it over the fence causes a concussion or internal hemorrhaging? What if it IS dead, so who the fuck cares?? Trash bins are to the right; to the left is the edge of yard with a fence and a drainage ditch on the other side. Fence/drainage ditch is closer -- decision made!
I do a weird quick walk/not run to the fence, furry body jiggling in hand and try to "gently" drop the possum over the fence. And I wince. "Sorry, possum!"
Then quickly go back the other direction to the trash bins to ditch my pink latex glove only to discover a giant spider web between trash can and house that I nearly walk into. Jesus!
Glove gone, go back inside. Except I still have to take Dogzilla back outside to pee because she didn't do that the first time around. Fuck. She, of course, inspects the area where the artist formerly known as a possum was hanging out, not believing me as I say repeatedly, "It's gone, Rosie." We come back inside for the fourth and final time.
I wash my hands, put on pj's, and then -- convinced that I'm going to have nightmares about possums -- look up on my phone (whilst lying in bed) how to tell if possums are really dead or just "playing" dead.
90% sure said possum was just "playing" dead (thanks, Interwebs!).
Update from this morning: possum is no longer in the ditch. Either s/he "woke up" and left or some other, larger animal ate it.
Last but not least, this all reminds me of a bit of perfect casting: William Shatner as the father possum in Over the Hedge. He does a Shakespearean-esque death monologue except
he. does it. in. the Shat. ner. style.
 |
| Fucking brilliant. |
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Halls of Terror
My Unit and I were having an ongoing conversation regarding closing doors. She had mentioned the other night that the closet door was continually ajar when she'd use the bathroom in the morning; meaning, that I had not quite closed the door the entire way (which is entirely possible). I made a mental note of it, but apparently was still not completely closing the door because yesterday evening she mentioned it again. I didn't even remember using the bathroom closet, let alone not quite closing the door.
My Unit brought up the fact that I don't quite close the bathroom door (completely) either (also true). It's often ajar because otherwise our animals will bang on the outside of it, desperately trying to save me from the shower, the bathtub, or the need to poop. Please keep in mind that all of these conversations were light-hearted on my Unit's end and really no big deal, but suddenly it all came rushing back: the hallway in the house on Tompkins Drive.
Apparently I've always had an issue closing doors "properly," as I informed my Unit. I demonstrated on our bathroom door, pulling it closed until it clicked. "This way is apparently 'too loud,'" I explained. Because my psychotic step-mother once punished me by making me close all the doors up and down that hallway by turning the handle, then gently pulling the doors closed (still making sure they [quietly] clicked) because I just pulled them closed. And that was wrong. And "too loud."
Once I had closed all of the doors "properly" I had to go open them all again in order to repeat the process until I "got it right." That hallway had doors to:
My Unit brought up the fact that I don't quite close the bathroom door (completely) either (also true). It's often ajar because otherwise our animals will bang on the outside of it, desperately trying to save me from the shower, the bathtub, or the need to poop. Please keep in mind that all of these conversations were light-hearted on my Unit's end and really no big deal, but suddenly it all came rushing back: the hallway in the house on Tompkins Drive.
Apparently I've always had an issue closing doors "properly," as I informed my Unit. I demonstrated on our bathroom door, pulling it closed until it clicked. "This way is apparently 'too loud,'" I explained. Because my psychotic step-mother once punished me by making me close all the doors up and down that hallway by turning the handle, then gently pulling the doors closed (still making sure they [quietly] clicked) because I just pulled them closed. And that was wrong. And "too loud."
Once I had closed all of the doors "properly" I had to go open them all again in order to repeat the process until I "got it right." That hallway had doors to:
- the bathroom
- the linen closet
- the master bedroom
- my bedroom
- my brother's bedroom
- my sister's bedroom
That's six doors. Approximately 20 feet, one-way. Six doors closed and opened and closed and opened and closed ("the right way"), lather rinse repeat, I don't know how many times. Three? Ten? 40 feet "round-trip." And I was probably all of 8 or 9 at the time.
And then there was the time I ran down that same hallway to my bedroom at the end, desperately hoping to outrun said psychotic stepmonster who was coming to spank me. I got to my room, slammed the door, and looked around, panicked, wishing I was big enough and strong enough to push furniture in front of the door. She found me anyway and spanked me so hard I peed on myself, while crying. Age 10? 11?
Or the time -- maybe it was the same time? -- she chased me up the same hallway, calling me "a little bitch."
And then there was the time I ran down that same hallway to my bedroom at the end, desperately hoping to outrun said psychotic stepmonster who was coming to spank me. I got to my room, slammed the door, and looked around, panicked, wishing I was big enough and strong enough to push furniture in front of the door. She found me anyway and spanked me so hard I peed on myself, while crying. Age 10? 11?
Or the time -- maybe it was the same time? -- she chased me up the same hallway, calling me "a little bitch."
So yeah, I often don't close doors all the way.
 |
| (Not our actual hallway) |
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Logan (A Review)
I know, I know. Leonard is sorely behind the times in that we only just watched Logan two weeks ago. I think many of my thoughts can be summed up by this Unit conversation:
Reading that SlashFilm.com article filled some holes and brought even more gravity to an already heavy film. I really feel like Logan is a contemporary Western, and not just because Johnny Cash is featured on the soundtrack. (Sidenote: the use of his cover of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" in the first trailer was fucking brilliant.) Perhaps I've not watched enough Westerns (original or contemporary or remakes) but "Old Man Logan," world-weary and still struggling with "doing the right thing" or being left alone, a fiesty young girl character, zero love interest, and yes, of course, all of the desert landscape featured all said "Western" to me, in the same vein as True Grit and 3:10 to Yuma.
Laura's first fight scene (even her name screams "Western!") was insanely cool. I did gasp"Jesus!" at the screen when her toe-claw first flipped out. I was trying to explain to my Unit the intensity of the scene, but could only squeak out, "She's practically feral!"
In fact, let's talk about Laura for just a moment. Well, let's talk about Dafne Keen Fernandez: she's under 13 and can do more (and better) acting with zero words than some adult actors I know, even with whole monologues at their disposal. And how awesome is it that she's:
"Old Man Logan" is kinda hot. There. I said it. Just as we get used to Hugh Jackman as "Old Man Logan," though, the movie smacks us in the face. Old Man Logan makes sense: he's older (well, closer to looking his own age, I guess); he's a little more mellow (for Wolverine) with age; he needs reading glasses; he's used to hard work put you don't wanna poke the bear (see: Munson family scenes). We don't even realize how accustomed we've grown to him until BAM! Other Wolverine (X-24) shows up and reminds us what we're really used to seeing. It's a great visual comparison to show us exactly just how far he's come/how much he's changed. Plus, how often do you get watch Hugh Jackman fight himself?
I love Patrick Stewart's Xavier in this film because he's quite a bit different from previous Charles Xavier's, even the James McAvoy Xavier's. Everything from saying "fuck" to the funny (but still sad and pathetic) "I need to pee" -- all of it. He runs the emotional gamut in this film in ways that we're not used to Professor X (or really Patrick Stewart, for that matter). Like the Unit conversation above said, it showcases how desperate things have gotten.
As a whole the movie had only one false note for me, and unfortunately, it was a large (loud?) one. The ending fight scene, as Logan is impaled by the tree branch and Laura is crying over him, she cries "Daddy." Not "Dad," not "Father," not even the (infinitely more plausible) "Logan," but "Daddy." And then she repeats it, like, two more times. Those three words felt entirely forced to me; they did not ring true at all.
Yes, we know Logan's DNA was used, so he is technically her father; chances are she knows that, too. And even though they formed a fast and strange but slightly paternal relationship, it didn't make sense (to me) that she would cry out "Daddy" while crying over his dying/dead body. If anything a "Nooo!" (though not Luke Skywalker style dramatic) would make more sense; best would probably just be the crying/ wailing/keening that doesn't require any words at all. Maybe it's because Leonard is dead inside, but that part struck me as entirely forced; I can't seem to find another word to describe it.
Now that I've purchased, watched, and finished the movie comes the really tough question: do I file it under "L" for "Logan" or under "X" alongside X-Men, X-Men 2, X3, X-Men: First Class, and Wolverine?
Me: "Professor Xavier said 'fuck'!"While I did enjoy the movie, I also felt a little bit lost in the first 10 minutes or so. Looking at other reviews and commentary after I finished it, it turns out I was not alone. (X-Men: Days of Future WTF has also seriously screwed up my entire timeline/understanding of this franchise.) It also turns out that was entirely intentional. For instance, "the Westchester incident." Even as some of the details were dribbled out to us, I didn't fully understand the weight of what they (and Professor X) were saying. I immediately recognized "Westchester" as "home base" for Xavier's school, but it didn't dawn on me that the "incident" and Professor X "hurting people" truly meant wiping out mutants.
My Unit: "So? He's a grown man."
Me: "Yeah, but usually he's the one who's all 'we like everybody, let's give you a family,'..."
Her: "That's how you know things are fucked up."
Me: "Exactly."
Her (referring to its R rating): "And then they had sex and smoked cigarettes."
Me: "Professor X and Wolverine did not have sex. In that scene. That I'm aware of. But if they do --"
Her: "You'll let me know."
Me: "Of course! I'll be like, 'What the fuck is this?? Triple-X-Men??!?'"
Reading that SlashFilm.com article filled some holes and brought even more gravity to an already heavy film. I really feel like Logan is a contemporary Western, and not just because Johnny Cash is featured on the soundtrack. (Sidenote: the use of his cover of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" in the first trailer was fucking brilliant.) Perhaps I've not watched enough Westerns (original or contemporary or remakes) but "Old Man Logan," world-weary and still struggling with "doing the right thing" or being left alone, a fiesty young girl character, zero love interest, and yes, of course, all of the desert landscape featured all said "Western" to me, in the same vein as True Grit and 3:10 to Yuma.
Laura's first fight scene (even her name screams "Western!") was insanely cool. I did gasp"Jesus!" at the screen when her toe-claw first flipped out. I was trying to explain to my Unit the intensity of the scene, but could only squeak out, "She's practically feral!"
In fact, let's talk about Laura for just a moment. Well, let's talk about Dafne Keen Fernandez: she's under 13 and can do more (and better) acting with zero words than some adult actors I know, even with whole monologues at their disposal. And how awesome is it that she's:
- a girl
- Spanish
- kicks major ass in this film
"Old Man Logan" is kinda hot. There. I said it. Just as we get used to Hugh Jackman as "Old Man Logan," though, the movie smacks us in the face. Old Man Logan makes sense: he's older (well, closer to looking his own age, I guess); he's a little more mellow (for Wolverine) with age; he needs reading glasses; he's used to hard work put you don't wanna poke the bear (see: Munson family scenes). We don't even realize how accustomed we've grown to him until BAM! Other Wolverine (X-24) shows up and reminds us what we're really used to seeing. It's a great visual comparison to show us exactly just how far he's come/how much he's changed. Plus, how often do you get watch Hugh Jackman fight himself?
I love Patrick Stewart's Xavier in this film because he's quite a bit different from previous Charles Xavier's, even the James McAvoy Xavier's. Everything from saying "fuck" to the funny (but still sad and pathetic) "I need to pee" -- all of it. He runs the emotional gamut in this film in ways that we're not used to Professor X (or really Patrick Stewart, for that matter). Like the Unit conversation above said, it showcases how desperate things have gotten.
As a whole the movie had only one false note for me, and unfortunately, it was a large (loud?) one. The ending fight scene, as Logan is impaled by the tree branch and Laura is crying over him, she cries "Daddy." Not "Dad," not "Father," not even the (infinitely more plausible) "Logan," but "Daddy." And then she repeats it, like, two more times. Those three words felt entirely forced to me; they did not ring true at all.
Yes, we know Logan's DNA was used, so he is technically her father; chances are she knows that, too. And even though they formed a fast and strange but slightly paternal relationship, it didn't make sense (to me) that she would cry out "Daddy" while crying over his dying/dead body. If anything a "Nooo!" (though not Luke Skywalker style dramatic) would make more sense; best would probably just be the crying/ wailing/keening that doesn't require any words at all. Maybe it's because Leonard is dead inside, but that part struck me as entirely forced; I can't seem to find another word to describe it.
Now that I've purchased, watched, and finished the movie comes the really tough question: do I file it under "L" for "Logan" or under "X" alongside X-Men, X-Men 2, X3, X-Men: First Class, and Wolverine?
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
The End of the Brush (3 in a Series)
For the occasions where I slather make-up on my face, the process goes a little something like this (NOT A TUTORIAL):
- If I have not just washed my face (and stepped out of the shower), I will cleanse with a toner of some kind.
- Then moisturizer/primer
- Maybe color correction
- Then I'll apply foundation.
- Okay one small tutorial: as always, when applying things to my face, I remember the wisdom of a Mary Kay consultant many, many years ago: we already have to fight against gravity as we age, so don't add to the problem by continually pulling your make-up, sponges, brushes, et cetera downward. I try to go upwards, against the grain of gravity, and sometimes in new and different directions so I'm not continually pulling my skin in the same ways all the time. Does it work? Who knows, but I'm not taking any chances.
- Then translucent powder
- Eyes go in this order:
- Brows (brush and color in)
- Eye shadow
- Eyeliner (liquid, black)
- Eyelash curler (so they stop poking me right in the eyeballs)
- Mascara (also black)
And this is when I think of Aimee. Every time. I remember watching TV together -- no idea what (maybe an episode of Friends?) -- and a commercial came on for some mascara. Among their many (unrealistic) promises, this brand promised to get "every lash," all the way to the "corner of your eye." And Aimee yelled at the T.V. "It's called using the end of the brush, dumbass!"
And we laughed. Because she was right.
And I smugly apply my mascara, utilizing the end of the brush for my outer corner lashes, thinking of Aimee every single time.
**Blush, lipstick happen next, in case you were wondering; lipstick is always last, often after I'm dressed.
And we laughed. Because she was right.
And I smugly apply my mascara, utilizing the end of the brush for my outer corner lashes, thinking of Aimee every single time.
**Blush, lipstick happen next, in case you were wondering; lipstick is always last, often after I'm dressed.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Text Message Interlude
Ridiculous Role Play Edition:
Me: "Coming home [from the gym]. Would like a red pepper, please."
My Unit: "Excuse me...this is not a restaurant. Today's special is chicken & dumplings $7.99 all you can eat."
Me: "If it's not a restaurant, why are you charging me for chicken & dumplings?
:-) And can I get a side of red pepper with that?"Her: "No substitutions or sides are offered."
Me: "Can I use a coupon?"
Her: "NO COUPONS!!!! ONLY CASH!!"
Me: "Hmmm,...I think I'd like to speak with a manager."
Her: "I own this joint!"
Me: "That's not what the guy who gave me this coupon said. The coupon also includes a free glass of wine."
Her: "WELL IT'S FAKE AND WE DON'T HAVE A LIQUOR LICENSE. NO MEN WORK HERE, JUST LESBIANS."
Me: "Why are you yelling at me? And tell that to Poe-Poe [one of our cats]."
End scene.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Review: Marine Biology
Marine Biology by Gail CarrigerMy rating: 3 of 5 stars
Three stars is rather low for me for a Gail Carriger book. I think much of that stems from it being rather short (yes, I know it's a short story). Nonetheless, it felt a bit rushed, especially toward the end: one sort-of dinner date, and now (Read on Goodreads to view spoiler) but it still seemed a little too "wrapped up neatly with a bow" for my taste.
On the other hand, some of the exposition just left me with more questions: like why are two merpeople investigating financial crimes? Is this a twentieth-century, American version of B.U.R. (and maybe I missed that detail?)?
Now that I think about it, "Two merpeople investigating financial crimes" actually sounds like a decent T.V. series -- BRB!
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