Diane Laney Fitzpatrick

writer, blogger, crafty woman

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Saving Face on Vacation

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I know a few people who are in the skin care and beauty biz and I have a request: Can you come up with a cream or something that takes away Vacation Face and Travel Body?  It’s a real 21st century problem. The first person who invents something that when you look in a hotel bathroom mirror you see anything other than your Irish grandfather could make a name for herself. I would volunteer to be the spokesmodel. I’ve got tons of before pictures you could use, many of them from the last big trip I took.

The trip was the longest in my personal history and was actually multiple trips rolled into one. With two huge suitcases and a couple of carryons, I moved in and out of my sister’s house in Cleveland three times in the course of a week. I stayed in four different hotels and other houses in three states. Did you ever wake up when you’re on vacation and for a second you lie there not knowing where you are? Yeah, I did that twenty times. It started to get old. Also gotten old was . . . well, me. I started out looking like a young-at-heart, happy-go-lucky, healthy(ish) middle aged housewife  with clear skin and a spring in my step, and came home looking like Keith Richards with a beer belly. [Read more…] about Saving Face on Vacation

Kiss and Make Up

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Have you ever been to Sephora or Mac or a department store makeup counter and seen a woman sitting in a high-chair getting her makeup done?

What an idiot. Right? I am more envious of the women in line who are buying gratuitously overpriced makeup than the chick who’s getting the good stuff put on her face for free. Because in order to get the makeup put on you by the expert, you have to do it in front of everyone in your tri-county area.

So of course I did it.

My husband and I were at Sephora (yes, they let him in) to buy our daughter a gift card for Christmas when the makeup sales lady told us that if we bought her a $125 gift card, she would get a free makeup consultation/demonstration/application/makeover for free.

It was a week before Christmas and my husband possibly had just realized he didn’t have a gift for me yet, so he said, “Maybe you would like one of those thingydoodles, too.”

So I said, yes, sure, I’d love to have a makeup consuldemocation.

The day of my appointment was the same day my husband sliced open his finger on a new knife. I had to race to Sephora from the Urgent Care. During his stitches, whenever I looked at my watch, my husband would say, “Oh, I’m sorry if my nearly amputated index finger of my right hand – and I’m right-handed – is keeping you from your important appointment. What is it again? Oh, that’s right. Getting your makeup done.”

Other than racing there and starting late, it all went swimmingly. I got over my humiliation of sitting embarrassingly close to the busy checkout line and even snapped a photo of myself with the mud mask on. Or was that the GlamGlow Super Sexy Super Radiant Tingling & Exfoliating Mud Mask ($69)? Yes, I believe it was.

I humbly sat still while my makeup expert told me how I could make my nose look smaller and thinner, my 54-year-old crevices look more like 45-year-old crevices, and how my fear of black mascara is irrational.

“So are you going anywhere special tonight?” she asked me as she was applying what felt like way too much blush. Or was that too much Nars Glimmer Blush Orgasm Peachy Pink With Shimmer ($28). Yes, I’m sure it was.

I was embarrassed to say I was planning to stay home and watch a Netflix movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung and finish the Williams-Sonoma peppermint bark.

“Well, depending on how I look, I might have to go to dinner. Or something,” I said weakly.

I called my husband on my way home from the mall and suggested we go to dinner. Or something. He had sufficiently recovered from the stitches, the local anesthetic hadn’t worn off yet, so he suggested we hurry up and get the first glass of wine in, as to kind of dovetail on the numbing.

My daughter snapped a picture of us before we left for dinner and it wasn’t until the next day when I saw the photo that I realized I had on way too much makeup. Maybe too much Dr. Jart + Water Fuse Smart Gel BB Ultra Hydrating + Memory Activated Formula ($36) and definitely too much BareMinerals Remix Ready Eyeshadow 4.0 ($30). Also, my fear of black mascara was well founded, as it turns out.

It reminded me of the time I made the mistake of telling my haircut guy that I was going to the Football Hall of Fame induction ceremony that night and he did my hair. As in getting your hair done. As in I got my hair done for the Football Hall of Fame induction tonight.

As I looked at my makeup demo face in the mirror, I was grateful I hadn’t had a hair appointment on the same day. This kind of makeup might be fine for ’70s bands and some other women, but not me. I thought about at least wiping off the lipstick. But it was Buxom Fully Loaded Lip Plumper ($19) and I couldn’t afford to waste it.

What an idiot.

Make Up and Kiss Off

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I can scratch off “Makeup Counter Lady” from the list of jobs I can do when I finally decide what I want to be when I grow up. (I’m holding out for something with a good retirement package, since I’ll be a mere months away from retirement when I start my new career. Meanwhile, the list gets shorter.)

The makeup counter ladies are so mean. I don’t think a nice Hubbard girl could last a day in a white coat at the Lancome counter. I wouldn’t sufficiently look down my nose at wrinkly women, pimply people and other unfortunates. Plus I’m pretty sure you have to look like Kate Moss in order to sell the stuff. (I got mixed up and was going for Kate Smith.)

I tried to buy some makeup at the Clinique counter at Macy’s this week. I knew from past experience that just walking up there would be committing self-esteem hari-kari.

Oh, and – big suprise – I walked away without any makeup but with a big shopping bag full of knowledge that I could sit in a singles bar for 4 hours before someone would buy me a drink. Did I really need the makeup counter lady to tell me that I have combination skin, vellus and Stage 1 crows feet? (Well, the vellus, yes, I did need her to tell me. I still can’t see it, even with my reading glasses on and a magnifier mirror.)

“No one is ever going to get close enough to me to see that,” I told her. “I’m married. The only people who get that close to my face are my husband and the eye doctor and neither of them have mentioned that they give a rat’s ass about invisible hairs on my face.”

I knew the makeup buying experience would be bad. Ever since a makeup lady walked up to my mom in the Bon Appetit Food Show in Chicago, grabbed her arm and said, “I can show you something to get rid of those wrinkles,” I’ve hated makeup ladies. We were at a food show, stuffing our faces with sushi and other delicious things wrapped in more delicious things, and pocketing all the free coasters, candy and other giveaways we could stuff in our purses. Who needs a reminder that you have wrinkles when you’re concentrating on getting fat?

“She’s not interested,” I said, grabbing my mom’s other arm. Afterward, one of the snappy comebacks I came up with was “She’s wrinkly because she smokes. Got anything at your magic makeup counter for that?”

All of my good comebacks arrive hours late, after I’m home eating all the skin care no-no foods and the makeup counter girl is getting drinks lined up in front of her at the singles bar.

If you’re afraid to comment openly here, for fear of retribution by the mean makeup counter ladies, you may send comments to Diane Laney Fitzpatrick at diane.laney.fitzpatrick@gmail.com.

I Can Resolute With the Best of Them

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People are going crazy with the lists these days. I used to be Queen of Lists but I’m getting trounced by average everyday unorganized, non-ambitious people right now. Ever since The Bucket List, people are going all Morgan Freeman and making lists of things they have to do before they die, setting goals, and making five-year plans.

“I’m a housewife. I don’t need a five-year plan,” I told my husband when he said my lack of goals was one of my shortcomings and could contribute to an onset of lethargy. It’s possible he’s just worried that I’ll stop getting up first and making the coffee.

It used to be that all you needed on Dec. 31 was one New Year’s resolution. “Get organized” was always mine. I announced it, drank my champagne, blew my noisemaker, and was good to go.

Now, my Facebook page is crammed full of people making 10 Goals for 2010 and we’re not talking about “lose 15 pounds” or “call my dad once a month.”  These are goals like “qualify and run in the Boston Marathon” and “get a master’s” and “go back to France and renovate that old barn this time.”

Good grief, whatever happened to the need to get the drawers cleaned out?

Instead of setting goals and checking them off, I’ve decided to change my lifestyle by making changes on a weekly basis. I’m taking a tip from all the hip bloggers, who are really into themes these days – like ‘Free Stuff Friday’ or a day where you pass off your blog to someone else to write. I don’t have anyone to dump my blog on, nor do I have any imagination at all, or anything to give away or auction off, but I can work with the theme idea to try to make 2010 better.

Makeupless Mondays. This will be good for my skin, but very bad for my self-esteem and reputation.  Not wearing makeup for one whole day of the week will solve the mystery of who that ugly lady is who drops my daughter off at school every morning. I tell my daughter to tell anyone who asks that it’s her aunt, someone who looks a little bit like me but is skankier. She is free to make up stories about this aunt’s sordid past as a street walker and meth addict. If I start to forgo makeup on Mondays, everyone will know it’s really me and I’m butt ugly without blush and lipstick. And I’m thinking of not blow-drying my hair, either. Don’t expect to see any photos of me on any given Monday.

Just-Read-the-Freaking-Book Tuesdays. I joined a book club this year, custom-made just for me and the kind of books that I want to read. The demands are not overwhelming. Sometimes I get even more than a month to read an average-sized novel. But I’ve been the biggest loser of my book club in that I’ve read probably less than anyone else in the club. I’m running out of ways to fake my way through the discussion without saying, “What?” when they talk about the ending. If I’m going to not get myself black balled, I’m going to have to set aside a day when I read at least a couple chapters without falling asleep.

Widescreen Wednesdays. Ever since my youngest child went to first grade and I had more than 45 minutes to myself, I’ve been fantasizing about seeing movies in the theater in the middle of the day. Eleven years later, and I still haven’t gotten around to it. “You should go to the movies during the day,” people have actually said to me. Yes, you’re right. I should. It would be a dream life like no other. But I just don’t do it. Clearly, I need a designated day or it’s not going to happen.

So-You-Think-You-Can-Bike Thursdays. I am the worst bike rider ever. I’m eating the dust of the 5-year-old on training wheels. Remember when Peter Brady got a job at the bike shop, and at the end of the show Mike and Carol bought bikes and Carol was all wobbly? I thought she was a dweeb. Yeah, well as it turns out, it’s hard to learn how to balance at an advanced age. My husband looks for excuses to not ride with me. Also, I wear a helmet. However, if I’m ever going to get better, I need to ride on a regular basis. If you need anything unbreakable dropped off or picked up within the sidewalked area of my neighborhood on a Thursday, let me know. I have a basket.

Flip-Off-Social-Networking Fridays. Breathe . . . . breathe . . . you can do this. In fact, I’m thinking of having an unplugged Friday, with no TV, no computer use, and no iPhone use other than the occasional primitive phone call. Like an animal.

Swearless Saturdays. I don’t swear a lot, but I could use some improvement on this front. Ever since my blog got an NC-17 rating for using words like “hell,” “damn” and “skanky” (x2) I’ve been a little sensitive to how much I swear. My husband says I can be a potty mouth at times. If he were my editor, he would replace all the hells with hecks, all the asses with butts, and all the skankys with unattractives.

Big Breakfast Sundays. Much like going to the movies in the middle of the day by myself, making big breakfasts every Sunday is something I’m more than capable of doing without much effort. But since it’s never been on a list, I haven’t done it. My sister-in-law Sheree, for many years, has made a big breakfast every Sunday with several meats, eggs and pancakes, and home fries that she starts preparing the night before. Honestly, their Sunday mornings were like brunch at The Breakers and for absolutely no special occasion, other than they had stayed up to watch SNL again. My Sundays should be like that. I’m doing it, darn it.

I’m doing all of it. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it into the first week of February, which is better than my Get Organized resolutions from 1970-2000.

The photo up top is apropos to nothing, other than it’s funny and I love those two guys. Finding things to laugh at should be on everyone’s list of goals for 2010. You’re welcome.

Just Call It Mess-cara

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Here’s why I don’t wear a lot of makeup, why I don’t deserve to be beautiful, and why I may stop all personal hygiene practices other than showering and brushing my teeth. I put on mascara the other day for the first time in about 25 years and it scratched my cornea and caused a 48-hour sore eye.

I know most women put on mascara every single day and don’t have any problems like this, which is why I think that makeup and I are headed for a serious break-up. It just doesn’t have the respect for me that it once had. And I’m not getting much out of the relationship.

I’m blaming the whole mascara incident on CNN. Early in the morning, when I’m making coffee, I turn on Robin Meade and – oh for the love of god, if she doesn’t look like a runway model . . . what is she doing on The News? Shouldn’t she be flapping her wings on a Victoria’s Secret ad in Elle? Like it isn’t hard enough to be an average looking middle-aged woman, but first thing in the morning? It’s hard to look at the TV screen, knowing what I, myself, look like at that moment. Anyway, her eyes are stunningly dark and lash-filled. I’m not saying I went out and bought mascara because I wanted to look like Robin Meade, but I was at CVS anyway and saw a mascara on sale, and thought, “Every woman on the planet plus Adam Lambert is wearing mascara, what’s the matter with me?”

So I bought it and put it on. Within a couple of hours, I was experiencing the same eye pain that I used to have when I had hard contact lenses and wore them too long.

Sidebar: Remember hard contacts? If you wore them a few hours too long, you’d get these stabbing eye pains that the doctor called corneal abrasion but that I called an oh-my-god-it-hurts-with-my-eyes-closed-and-it-hurts-with-them-open. More than once I had to be taken to the eye doctor and treated for a scratched cornea because I either fell asleep in my contacts or didn’t wear them at all one day and then all day the next day.

Once, in college, my friend John and I drove to Indiana to visit his friend in Indianapolis and my sister Reenie in Bloomington and I wore my contacts too long on the drive back to Kent. Some time after he dropped me off at my house, John had to come back to pick me up and drive me to the ER, where they squeezed some salve into my eyes and taped two big gauze pads to both of my eyes. There was tape all over my face. I looked like Tom Cruise in Minority Report and I felt like Johnny Depp in Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Without the blood dripping down.

Another time, I flew to Owensboro, Kentucky, for a job interview, over-wore my contacts and ended up spending the night between Day 1 of the interview and Day 2 of the interview clutching a pillow and rocking back and forth on the hotel bed, off and on talking with an ER nurse on the phone. Not surprisingly Day 2 didn’t go well and I didn’t get the job.

So yeah, the mascara made my eyes look different. It made my left one red, puffy and leaking tears for two days. Plus I had to wear my glasses, which don’t make me look smart, employed and well read, despite the LensCrafters poster promises.

So I’m back to no mascara. I could be a nun for all the makeup I don’t wear, the jewelry I don’t own, and the fact that I wear the same basic outfit pretty much all the time.

I would put my efforts into my lips and start using lip liner, but I read about this lady who used a tester lipstick in a department store and got a big old lip infection that she said was “throbbing.”

Robin Meade? Who needs her.

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