identity

Fake English Accents and Eyelash Extensions


When I was a kid, around middle school age, I had a best friend named Ellice. Her last name was something long and German sounding, virtually unpronounceable if you weren’t wearing lederhosen or didn’t have sauerkraut running through your veins.

Ellice had a father with perpetual dirt under his fingernails, which always struck me as odd because my dad never did.
In his filthy drab green coveralls, all greasy haired and grizzled, he was some kind of super-duper airplane mechanic. Her mother, on the other hand, was the executive assistant for some highfalutin businessman downtown. I never saw her without her high heels, red lipstick, and a really fake looking black wig with tufts of gray hair peeking out from the sides.

A more unlikely couple you could NOT imagine. If you saw her parents standing side by side you couldn’t picture them sharing a cab—let alone making babies.

Nevertheless, they had three. Ellice had a kid sister and a baby brother who were looked after by an au pair, which I learned was an exotic word for nanny, which was just another word for babysitter/maid—or in other words, Alice on the Brady Bunch. This entire concept was as foreign to me as the au pair, Kirsten’s, British accent.

Since we were tweens and obviously waaaay past the nanny stage, Ellice made it clear to Kirsten that “she was not the boss of her” which I’m sure came as a relief to the poor young woman seeing that every time I saw her she was braiding the toddler’s hair with one hand while holding the infant whose diaper had exploded ochre colored baby poo-poo all over her powder blue uniform with the other.

I can trace my earliest memories of “Yeah, that baby stuff—that’s not for me”, back to those exact moments.

That time in history, the 1960’s, was fraught with social conflict, burgeoning women’s rights, hippies and the English Invasion. All which mirrored my own internal, pre-teen, hormone fueled, identity crisis. But what may have imprinted on me the most was a fondness for foreign accents and my appreciation for the way they made the dumbest diatribes sound like freaking Shakespeare.

So, for three months one summer my “precocious friend“ (my mother christened her with that title) and I walked around our little slice of suburbia wearing Kirsten’s Mary Quant white lipstick (which we “borrowed” off of her nightstand)—and took to speaking with British accents. Now, when you’re faking a British accent it’s really only fun if you go around acting clueless and asking strangers a ton of questions in the most non-American way possible like “Where is the loo?” and “Can you please direct us to the lift?”

We explained our general stupidity and unbridled curiosity by saying we were exchange students from Bristol (I wanted London, but she picked Bristol.) We peppered our conversations with lots of “brilliants” and “cheerios” and as we walked away we flipped our hair and yelled “Tah!” over our shoulders.

We acted out this charade for so long that after a while I started to believe I was British.

That is, until our neighbor, Judy, busted me at the drug store in front of a man and his wife who went from being absolutely charmed and beguiled by us—to being thoroughly disgusted.

“Corkie, is that you?” Judy asked in her thick Brooklyn accent swinging me around by my shoulders. “Why are you talking like that? Don’t be an idiot. Stop embarrassing yourself!”

My face still gets hot with humiliation just thinking about it.

Which leads me to the present day and eyelash extensions. Have you seen them? They are spectacular!

I was late to the party on this trend, but after my sister convinced me to get them for the sake of “convenience” I have to admit—I fell truly, madly and deeply in love. They became my Holy Grail. My own black-fringed version of the Fountain of Youth. My Be All and End All.

You see, my natural eyelashes are so blonde they are invisible so I have always had to dye my them black to even know they exist. These days, my body suddenly has the ability to produce jet-black chin hair but my eyelashes have remained the color of straw—so I’ve taken to wearing false eyelashes, which I LOVE.

But, come on! Eyelash extensions were MADE for me! I mean, the fact that you WAKE UP—IN THE MORNING— with lush, dark black eyelashes made me feel… beautiful. I tried to stay blasé but I couldn’t help myself! Every time I caught my reflection in the mirror I did a double-take. I didn’t recognize myself. Those eyelashes transformed me into one of those women who wakes up gorgeous, like a Kardashian, or a soap opera star.

Strangers even commented on how pretty my eyes looked. I just batted those long, voluminous, black lashes so furiously, they repositioned the jet stream.

As the weeks passed I started to believe that I had been born with long, thick black eyelashes. And that they looked natural. Both which were lies.

Sadly, and I mean break my heart, dead puppy kind of sad, this time the part of my neighbor, Judy, was played by my own body. I was double-crossed by a severe allergic reaction which caused me to have to “give up the jig” after a brief six weeks.

I’m ashamed to say, they were the best six weeks of my life.

Nevermind. It has been my experience that throughout my life I’ve tried on a lot of affectations on my way to deciding who I really am.

And I’m betting you have too.

Some are ridiculous, like fake British accents, and we discard them after a couple of weeks. Some are impulsive but they grow on us and we weave them into the fabric of who we are like I did back-in-the-day with my red hair and more recently with a tiny gold nose ring.

I will not be deterred! Age hasn’t stopped me from morphing and changing and trying new things and I don’t believe that it should! Listen, I think that if I stop doing this you’d better hold a mirror under my nose to make sure I’m not dead.

Carry on,
xox

The great 11 pm. eyelash extension self-removal debacle of 2017. Which I can barely speak of without crying. Now I look like I have alopecia (not that there’s anything wrong with that.).

The Fluidity of Our Identity ~ Jason Silva Sunday

“I am who I think you think I am.” – Charles Horton Cooley

This is a trip. And, I think, important to try to wrap our brains around.

Carry on,
xox

What the Contents of My Purse Says About the Content of My Character

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I just switched to a summer bag. I know, I’m late to the party, being that it’s the third week in July.

Nevertheless, I transferred all of my purse “loot” to a bag that is lighter in both actual heft and color. It’s a happy pink bag. One that I purchased in Santa Fe, in a snowstorm, while my best friend shopped for sexy lingerie. It was at the bottom of a sale bin for thirty dollars.
SCORE!

It wasn’t a simple task. I carry around a lot of shit on a daily basis.
Useless, out-of-date, superfluous shit as it turns out.

I don’t want to hear one man snicker. Have you guys cleaned out your wallets lately?
What about your murse (man purse)? Have you really examined its contents in the last year?
Yeah, I thought not.

My husband utilizes his entire immediate environment as a wallet. So vast is his sphere of influence that a mere man-bag or wallet cannot contain it.
His car collects business cards. Hundreds of them.
His home-office overflows with receipts and warranties, gift cards and gum. And Altoids. Boxes and boxes of Altoids bought in bulk at Costco.

Not me. I’m much more self-contained so I didn’t really anticipate the jaw-dropping magnitude of this bag and switch.

And here is what the excavation revealed:(Drum roll)

Paperclips. Just like an archeologist at an ancient burial site, I stood holding three small paperclips, trying to figure out their significance in my daily life and what in the hell they’re doing in my purse. I have a vague recollection of using one as a barrette on a bad bang day.
Here’s the thing, I don’t clip paper. Ever. I’m a computer girl, I barely use actual paper much anymore, (which is tragically sad when you think about it). That may explain why my award-winning cursive (Miss Law’s seventh-grade penmanship award) has devolved into the scrawl of a deranged serial killer.

One schmutz covered open tube of L’Occitane Shea Butter hand cream. After much digging (burial site reference again) I found the lid.
It doesn’t matter. From the looks of it, the contents dried up sometime during a road trip back in 1992.

An LED pink and grey camouflage flashlight—that actually still works. Now I can rest easy. Not as easy as a signal flare would make me rest, but easy just the same.

An Advil bottle filled with an assortment of pills.
I thought it would be a hoot to open it up and take a trip down memory lane since I can’t remember the last time I put anything relevant inside that bottle.

Contents:
One Benadryl. That was for our dog, who, when she was a puppy was allergic to bee stings. She died in March at the age of nine.

Something that looks suspiciously like a birth control pill. Wha…what? Why, at fifty-seven does an obviously lost and alone birth control still make my heart stop and my blood run cold?

Seventeen Motrin. An odd number since the recommended dose is two, and kinda an F-you to Advil. Like having Pepsi in a Coke can.

One half of a migraine pill. For those days when I’m suffering from one half of a migraine.

One half of what I think is a Xanax. First of all, half? Really? Any situation that requires Xanax—requires an entire pill. AND, Can I just tell you how many times I wish I’d known that was there?

One Midol. Awwww. How sweet. I’m going to open my time capsule and put that in there with my tampons, my flat stomach, my perky tits, and my happy-go-lucky disposition.

A Zeiss ten power bad-ass jeweler’s loop. Don’t accidentally flash your engagement ring my way—I’m trained, armed and opinionated.

One dollar and fourteen cents of loose change (which I will promptly donate to the nearest tip jar).

A package of pink flamingo tissues. I have NO idea where they came from. I know I didn’t buy them. Pink Flamingos? come on! Plus, they have the consistency of crepe paper and  I wouldn’t let them touch any part of my body on a dare.

My prescription from the Optometrist The latest one from January 2015. A girl with eyesight as diminished as mine can’t be too careful.

One fossilized Cliff Bar. In case the Zombies attack. I could throw it at them.

My sad, pebbly brown leather, Hermes wallet which has lived an abused and overstuffed life (Overstuffed with everything except cash.)
I have blatantly disrespected this beautiful, obscenely expensive, vacation purchase,(because who looks at prices on vacation), until now it is so stretched out on the sides you could store your umbrella.
I love it so…I just can’t let it go…I need help.

Inside there are tens of assorted cards, which sadly at my age have switched from the latest, greatest club, boutique or restaurant; to one for a dermatologist, my hormone doctor, a podiatrist and other assorted magicians. My how times have changed.
I did find a business card for my realtor, the lovely man who helped me purchase my home—in 1999. I wonder if he’s still alive.

An old California driver’s license which expired in 2001 after ten years of extensions. It has my old name, and a long forgotten address from the nineties, but I keep it because the picture chronicles the decade I dyed my hair bright red and…well who am I kidding, it verifies that once, after a nasty stomach flu, I was five foot five, and weighed one hundred pounds.
Sometimes, on a low day, with my grey hair and stretched out yoga pants, after snarfing down an entire bag of Fritos—I just need to see that.

A Costco, Ralph’s and Vons card (because I tend to have revolving loyalty, although I shop almost exclusively at Trader Joe’s) and a Petco card.

A checkbook. With unused checks. I can’t decide if the archeologists gets this or the time capsule.

A leather pouch containing five MAC lip glosses (which are all three-quarters empty), Bobby Brown cheek tint, and a KCRW Fringe Benefits Card (if you’re not in LA that last one won’t make sense).

Forever stamps from the U.S. Postal Service, which are even though they are FOREVER are virtually obsolete by the time you walk out to the parking lot.

Danielle LaPorte Temporary Tattoos. I think they come with like eight or nine inspirational words in her handwriting, and of those, only blissful, love and joy are left. I haven’t gotten around to those words yet. Hmmm…I wonder what that means?

One groovy rhinestone skull glass case which is always empty because the groovy skull magnate isn’t strong enough to hold the glasses in place. Which leads me to believe it was probably made in Italy where everything is stunning, but nothing does what it’s designed to do. It also explains the loose pair of designer cheaters whose lenses are so scratched it’s like looking through wax paper.

Oh, and my iPhone 6, which also gravitates toward the bottom of every bag, (or the floor of the passenger seat of my car) no matter how many specially designed pockets are sewn inside.
I suspect it’s magnetized—attracted to the earth’s core. Fucking Apple.

So lets see here, what have we determined about me?
That I have a little Girl Scout survival preparedness thing going on with the flashlight and the Cliff Bar (and the lip gloss).

That I can’t spend good money on nice things because I can’t be trusted to take proper care of them.

That rhinestone skulls are my kryptonite.

That I carry way too much make-up for a woman my age.

That I’m going to have to break down and wear blissful, love and joy on my body someday.

That it is crazy how badly I need a new wallet.

And that I’m just like you—a walking, talking, hot mess contradiction—who’s just doing the best she can—with a bright pink summer bag.

Carry On,
xox

 

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

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