There are few places as intimidating to me as the makeup counter. Yes, I am aware of how ridiculous this sounds. But women like me can’t just go to Walgreens & pick out a shade that you think “looks about right” because then you apply a foundation that is two shades darker than your neck & it looks like you’re wearing a mask. And it’s not because you didn’t blend it. And I need a sweat-proof, waterproof, not-coming-off-unless-you-use-a-brillo-pad makeup line.
So, that being said, I find myself at the department store makeup counters with the semi-snotty, perfect hair, impeccable makeup, & lab coated models. I beg for their assistance with my clumped mascara & poorly applied eyeliner.
They are always eager to come to my rescue.
The following is an account of last night’s session at Belk.
I beeline straight to Clinique for my foaming face wash that I’ve been out of for some time now. I keep thinking I can find a better makeup remover for cheaper.
I cannot.
I see one girl working the entire cosmetics department, currently assisting a man at fragrances, so I think I will settle in.
What ever happened to those fun springy chairs? This one is all hard and has no bounce. I’d rather stand than partake in this molded-to-look-like-a-chair-but-is-actually-a-rock-in-disquise furniture.
I circle the counter like a shark, eyeing a blonde with a ponytail in yoga pants pushing her toddler around but still is managing to look trendier than me.
The associate from perfumes breaks free & goes to help her. She was at Estee Lauder before me, so it’s okay. I wait patiently, looking at the pink stuff for Breast Cancer Awareness month (who is NOT AWARE?!?) & this tote bag that I thought was cute when I first walked up but on closer inspection is uglier than homemade sin.
Another lab coat approaches. She joins the first in assisting the blonde with the toddler. 1st lab coat comes to me. I tell her what I need, sounding like an authority on the subject. You have to, or they’ll talk you into a whole ‘nother skincare line & you’ll spend $400.
Trust me.
I pay & walk ten steps to Estee Lauder. Lab Coat Two barely glances my direction. Lab Coat One that I just departed from has decided I am invisible since Lab Coat Two is back at her post.
I eye the potions warily. I remember my last visit, getting roped into the teeny tiny miniscule bottle of wrinkle serum to the tune of $68. Not again, my friends.
Their chair is padded, but looks like they’ve been trying to darken it with foundation. Maybe they should take it to the tanning bed. I wander around the counter. Not much to see. It’s gift time. Great. I’ll have to make a decision on which “pallete” I want. This gives me an ulcer. I look at all the new red clothes displayed for fall. They look like Indian rugs with the tassels & wild prints. I get closer. Hmm, this sweater isn’t too bad. Oh, here come people, I better get back over here or I’ll lose my place in line.
Blonde in ponytail is still seeking council. Toddler is not screaming. This place is weird.
“Thank you for being so patient,” Lab Coat Two tells me.
“No problem,” I answer, scrolling through Instagram.
“I’ll sweeten your deal,” she says with a wink as she grabs a tissue.
“You’re fine, take your time,” I assure her, wishing I was anywhere but here. Like this waterfall in Northern California…or eating this praline on River Street. Why do I follow these people who live where I want to stay? Why do I do it to myself?
I put my phone away & pretend to be interested in lipsticks. I pull out the rolling tray of samples.
Lab Coat One approaches like she’s never seen me before, although I am still holding my bag from ten minutes prior, & we had a conversation about make-up removal variations. I must have looked like I was fixing to stick my un-sanitized finger in a pot of miracle goo.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to get the double wear in Fresco,” I say, once again sounding like an expert. But oh…I need powder too…and I’ve never bought theirs. It’s not on my card. “I also need to get some powder. I prefer the loose.” Because the pressed makes me feel like I’m messing everything up. The loose makes me feel like Marilyn Monroe.
She’s dusting it on her hand over the base. She tries three different ones, surreptitiously glancing at me between applications, before I save her. “I’m really pale, it’s probably the lightest one.”
She visibly exhales. “I thought so.”
By now, Lab Coat Two has sent Blonde With a Toddler on her way & is ringing me up. “Sorry you had to wait so long,” she apologizes again.
“It’s really okay,” I assure her again.
“Which pallete did you want to try? The neutral or the pinks?”
“Uhhhh…” How did I manage to forget she was going to ask me this. WHY did I spend my time looking at ugly sweaters & beautiful houses in New Orleans? I should have been pondering this life altering decision. And why can’t they decide FOR me? That’s why I come here, so I won’t screw up.
“Pinks,” I answer. Her lips move like I picked the wrong one but she didn’t say anything.
“And which age-defying? The revitalizing or the resilience?”
I’m sure this was met with a blank look crossed with deer in the headlights.
“Lifting is the better deal,” she leans forward & says conspiring tone.
“Okay,” I whisper back, afraid of the people we cannot see. And wondering which “R” word meant lifting. It is a synonym not in my repertoire.
“And let me get you something for being so patient,” she adds, moving to the drawer of wonder. “What do you like? Lipsticks? Eyeshadows?”
“Oh, just whatever. You really don’t have to do that,”
She’s digging through assorted bottles & giving me a quick look. “What color do you wear?”
I dig out my favorite lipstick & tell her the name. She takes it from me & finds nothing similar, but a “nice accompaniment” in shadow. OK, great, lady, get me out of here, my head is about to explode.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I get outside but then my nostrils fill with the scent of polecat. It is almost favorable over the assaulting perfumes from inside.
Why do some men think women have it made? There is no such thing as natural beauty. Dolly Parton says so. I was in there for twenty minutes & it felt like a ten year prison sentence.
But to some…oh, it is so much more.
This is Miss MacKenzie Henry, being baptized by her papaw (preacher) Danny Henry, & her daddy, Scotty. MacKenzie is a special needs, loving, beautiful child of God.
About a month ago, her momma was tucking her in, doing the whole ritual of singing to her & reading a little bit, talking about the upcoming week. “And you know what’s happening Sunday?”
Kenzie nodded enthusiastically. Brandi told her again who all was getting baptized. Kenzie nodded more exuberantly & pointed at her chest. “Me!”
Brandi was stunned. “You want to be baptized?”
“Yes!” Nodding excitedly. She got her point across.
Now, we would like to believe that children are protected, until they become the age of accountability, but I could not find any specific verses to support this belief, which is somewhat disturbing. At any rate, MacKenzie had sat through enough Bible School lessons & church services to know that she needed to be saved & it had laid on her heart for knows how long before she was able to communicate her desire. The problem probably stemmed from her fear of water. She doesn’t like it going over her head. But Brandi patiently explained to her that that was something that would have to happen, & MacKenzie allowed that she was at peace with it.
So, it came to pass, that Sunday, the congregation, with added family & friends, gathered on the rocky bank of the river, shaded by the thick vegetation encroaching on all sides. No breeze whispered through the grasses and leaves to alleviate the stifling humid day. A hush had fallen as Danny spoke the word of God over her, his voice breaking here & there as he kept his arms around his granddaughter. Scotty remained stoic.
The plunge. She was brought right up, but she was still in a mild panic & wouldn’t let her feet touch down, kept them drawn under her, so her father carried her out, trying to remain upright on the slick river rocks that covered the bottom.
MacKenzie was a twin. Houston was born, larger than his sister, gallantly fought for a few days, and to everyone’s surprise, passed away. He opened his eyes one time. Scotty carried him to his grave & placed him there to rest.
Houston died so that MacKenzie could live. This is true. When he passed, the doctors weren’t sure exactly what caused his death. There just wasn’t enough time. He had fluid on his brain, but both of them had that. Tests were ran, & in just in the lick of time, results were back so that they could treat MacKenzie. Houston saved her life.
A baptism is a rebirth. So the fact that Scotty carried his son to his grave, but carried his daughter out of the river is enough to send me into a crying jag, shivering.
I hope you can now see the emotion in this beautiful picture. I hope that you can see the love of God expressed in these people’s faces. And my greatest desire is that you know the Lord, or come to know Him soon.
Y’all ain’t gonna believe this.
So, you know how yesterday I was telling you about dropping 500 horseshoe nails in the floor? And how I compared it to dropping toothpicks?
Well.
I’m in the kitchen, fixin’ spaghetti, the aroma of onions & garlic filling the air, pasta bubbling away on the stove. I go to get the Italian seasoning out of the cabinet. This would be the cabinet above the stove, crammed with all manner of spices, excess olive oil, Crisco, & whatnot.
It happened so suddenly, I’m not sure what happened.
I’m standing there, toothpicks raining down around me, when Johnny appears from the basement with the garlic bread I had requested from the chest freezer.
I stood paralyzed. They were everywhere: in my hair, on the stove, scattered all over the floor, IN THE PASTA.
I sprang into action, frantically scooping them out with a spaghetti fork.
Did you know toothpicks float? Well, you do now.
About that time, I smelled something burning. I hadn’t put the bread in yet (that’s what I typically burn) so it couldn’t be that.
There were several charred toothpicks lying under the eye. I turned the burner off, moved the pot, & turned the blower on, sucking away the smoke that was making my eyes water.
I think this catastrophe was somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 toothpicks. I bought one of those containers from Cracker Barrel that holds 350 eons ago, & use maybe a dozen a year.
I’ll have you know I didn’t say a single bad word…until I dropped my garlic bread in the floor.
It’s all true. Ask Shug.
Some of my customers I dearly love, some I’d dearly love to kill.
This morning, I waited on a few I love.
First thing was Hugh Manis, whom I’ve waited on for years. I attended his church (Seymour First Baptist) for awhile, & sat with him & his wife nearly every time.
When you get married, generally if it’s a Christian ceremony, the preacher will ask you to hold the couple accountable. The union of two people coming together is a Holy bond & to keep them in your prayers for a strong, healthy marriage. The people gathered include some of the ones who love you best & dearest, so it’s easy for them to make that promise. But I have found that it’s some of my older male customers that hold me accountable, that they ask how my husband’s doing, or, more commonly, “Are you still married?” When I answer to the affirmative, it’s usually followed by, “He’s a good man.”
I don’t argue with that statement.
Anyway, I’m helping Mr. Manis carry out his purchases this morning (he walks on a cane, so I help him if his son doesn’t accompany him) & he asks me, “Where are you & your husband going to church now?”
Now, Johnny & I never attended FBS together. I went alone. But he’s been on me to come back for some time.
No sense in being embarrassed. “We’re not attending anywhere. We just fell out of the habit.”
“We got plenty of room,” he tells me with a smile.
“Yes, I remember. But Johnny likes little bitty churches.” (I honestly prefer a smaller congregation, to where you don’t get lost in the scheduling, but would go anywhere I felt welcome. Honestly, we’re enjoying the lazy life.)
We stepped outside. “Well, you need to make sure you have a home church when the babies start coming,” he reminded me gently.
“Yes, sir, but there’s not gonna be any babies. We still need to go. If we ever got started back, we’d be better off.”
He started telling me about his wife being back in the hospital. We chatted for a minute by his old Ford. He is one of the ones I love, & I’m not sure how much longer I’ll get to love him.
Then I was waiting on David Sarten, aka “Nugget” for his nuggets of wisdom, when I realized my shirt was on inside out. Looks like I need someone to hold me accountable for what I put on as much as I need steered back into church.
🙂 My good friend TammyLynn (the one who almost got eaten by a bull shark at Douglas last week) brought it to me this morning.Here’s what happened, although I’m ashamed to admit it.
It all started last year, when I got it in my head to be a good wife & make my husband homemade biscuits. I’m not a fan of homemade biscuits (just hush) & every time I say that in the presence of a baker, they gasp aloud, & say, “You’ve never had mine!” all scandalized. I have determined that in most of my experience eating them, I have found them dry & hard. I much prefer the frozen type, it’s really hard to mess them up. Anyway, so I went to Pinterest, found the prettiest picture, & used the accompanying recipe. This particular endeavor involved putting the dough in the blender. Johnny chose that moment to walk in the kitchen & took in the scene, blender whirring, flour dusted on every still surface (including my hair).
“Never seen my granny use a blender to make homemade biscuits,” he commented drily.
“You might not live to see these,” I replied icily, as he beat a trail back to the living room.
Well, those biscuits came out edible, but they were neither beautiful nor mouthwatering, as I recall. And I had hung up my biscuit making hat again, until about two weeks ago.
Biscuits come up in conversation at the Co-op pretty often, as you might imagine. It was one morning, & TammyLynn was here, visiting, & Marshall Dykes got to talking about cathead biscuits. I was choosing to remain silent for once, as I knew my opinion would not be well received. But then they pressured me, “Wouldn’t you like to have some big ole homemade biscuits?” they asked. And I made my comment.
They were both aghast.
“And then everybody always says, ‘but you ain’t had mine!'”
“We-eeellll….” TammyLynn starts. “I’m just gonna go ahead & say it. You ain’t had mine!”
“Well, bring ’em on,” I challenge.
Plans were laid. We were to have homemade biscuits the next morning, with homemade strawberry freezer jam, courtesy of TammyLynn.
I was I in charge of bringing the butter.
I was all excited the next morning. They were the most beautiful golden brown, fluffy biscuits that ever existed in the history of the world.
You talk about a sticky mess. My rolling pin had some accumulated grease on it from years of disuse (let’s be honest, decades…) so it had to be washed in the middle of getting my loaf mixed, so that probably didn’t help matters. Then the recipe card lacked the temperature to bake them at, so I opted for 350. That turned out to be another mistake, in a long line of fails for the morning. I rolled them out best I could, the heavy marble pin sinking deeply into the dough, so I ended up folding the dough over itself (which I learned is how you make flaky layers). I had been warned not to work up the dough very long, keeping it to strictly less than 30 seconds I had my hands in it. So here I was worried about that, picturing the bombs from Candy Crush counting down. I was careful not to twist my cutter as I stamped them out. Now or never, I thought, sliding them into the oven. I looked at the clock. They were supposed to be done in 10-12 minutes. Twenty minutes later, I’m still waiting on them to brown.
Johnny tentatively says, “Maybe they’re done & just not turning…”
So I retrieved them, & sure enough, they were brown on the bottom. And just as thin as they’d started.
I sighed.
We ate them with sausage, or butter & plenty of jam. They were fine, other than dry & short.
I text TammyLynn, as per request, to hash it out. She basically told me to keep trying. Meanwhile, Johnny was eating them as fast as he could. “Nothin’ wrong with these biscuits,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Just a little flat.”
The week went by & I puzzled about what I could change to make them better. I didn’t broach the subject with anyone besides TammyLynn, though. I didn’t feel like getting barraged by suggestions. Sunday, I tried again.
I was ready with a clean & dry rolling pin this time. I dusted my wax paper. I jacked the heat up on the oven to 400. Bring it on, I thought.
My biscuits did not rise.
I flew into a rage.
I flung the two pans across the kitchen, Johnny ducking. “Well, there ain’t no sense in getting mad about it,” he drawled sensibly.
“I CAN’T suck at this. I suck at sports. I don’t like working in the sun. If you are terrible at more than one or two things, you suck as a person. I refuse.” I’m slung the biscuits of one pan on top of the other, & went to digging in the freezer for the tried-and-true Pillsbury brand. In the meantime, Johnny is sampling off the “ugly” one, the pieced one. “They taste fine, babe.”
So here we went to eating flat biscuits for the second Sunday in a row. “If it was easy, everybody would do it,” he tried to console me as tears welled in my eyes.
I was sure I was still rolling them out too thin, but I couldn’t help it, due to that unwieldy rolling pin. And I was afraid to pat them out, because that would put me waaaaay over the thirty second mark & make them hard.
At this point, I was ready for suggestions from the experienced biscuit makers at work. I consulted Robin.
“Well, first of all, what kind of flour are you using?”
I was a step ahead, already checking that the morning before. It IS self rising, but it’s the unbleached kind. Because, didja know, “Enriched” means BLEACHED. Yeah, that’s right, you’re eating BLEACH.
“I don’t know. I don’t use buttermilk, & I don’t use butter, but I just sift my flour–”
“Wait. What? Sift?” My ears pricked like a hunting dog.
“Oh, you haven’t been sifting it? Always, always sift it.”
“I don’t,” Clint interjected. He starts telling me how he does it, & what a mess he makes. Robin thinks I need more milk. She also urged me to take a fork & punch holes in the top, she’s heard it works. Tuletta says I need to use buttermilk. Kay told me to put an egg in there, it adds fluffiness. Yes, that’s right, an egg. Willie (yes, tire shop Willie, even HE can bake biscuits) says to mix my flour & milk first, then add Crisco. Some lady overhearing a conversation said to use a wooden spoon.
I think I don’t have biscuits in my heart. I think I’m oozing bad juju & karma in my dough & my biscuits know I hate them. I need love for my biscuits.
I’m gonna keep after it. Oven is going to 425. I’m gonna use my new rolling pin, courtesy of my professional biscuit baking buddy, & I’m gonna add a little more milk. I’m gonna put on some Gillian Welch & sing. I’ll let y’all know Sunday how it goes.
A few days ago a friend posted about being at the vet’s office with her pet. In the waiting room, there was another lady with her pet…and three unruly children. She had shushed them several times as they made a ruckus & eventually took them out to her vehicle to watch a movie while they waited on results . Essentially, bribing them to be good for the duration of the visit, & rewarding them for their already abysmal behavior. These children were reportedly of an age to know how to act. When the vet had to go outside & summon them, the noise from inside the room where they gathered was loud, as the mother continued to shush them to no avail, while she tried to speak with the vet about their dog or whatever. The friend ended by saying she knows what would have happened to her if she’d acted this way- a busted hind end. Same here.
The comments on this post were immediate. Mothers weighed in saying they sympathized with the woman having to wrestle with three little ones & a dog in a strange environment. Another said for important chores she enlisted a baby sitter for them.
Well. Here’s my theory. And I know my opinion doesn’t matter, because I have no children. But before you get all huffy, hear me out.
Children are spoiled.
When I was little (and yes, there was only one of me), a trip out ANYWHERE was a treat. It was nice to get out of the house. I wasn’t carted here there & yonder every day of the week for enriching activities. I had to make do with keeping busy in the yard, or my room. It wasn’t my momma’s responsibility to make sure that my every want was met, just my needs. If I wanted to go to the zoo, I had to wait. Had to wait on a special occasion, like a birthday, so we would have a little extra money. The park? Did we even have parks back then? You just went outside & built a fort from sticks & an old tarp & hunkered down with Harriet the Spy. Trip out for Froyo? Good luck with that. Suck on a packaged icee stick that cut your mouth with that sharp plastic. Maybe, if I could catch someone in a generous mood, they’d put a banana in the blender with some vanilla ice cream. If we had a foray to the drugstore, grocery store, shoe store, wherever, & I acted out, punishment was swift. I was whipped right then & there, or soon after arriving home. And I didn’t get to go next time. Whatever special things we had planned were stripped until further notice.
My point is, think of the women in past generations. They had several children, and they certainly didn’t have a reward system for bad behavior. So what if your kids are in a bad mood? It’s not about them. It’s about getting groceries for the next week. It’s about getting new clothes since you’re outgrowing everything. It’s a PRIVILEGE to be out in public. Look around. You are in a different environment. Promote your children to ask questions about the strange products they see, to quit pestering their siblings.
Yes, this is easy for me to say, because I don’t have any. But I also don’t want any. Not because I’m afraid I’ll be a failure & hafta eat my words, either.
Because my kids would be judged, mocked, & ridiculed because they still get spanked, told no to nearly everything, & have to read two hours for every hour spent with an electronic device. I wouldn’t be fair. They wouldn’t be treated like kings & queens, they’d be treated like little hostages, wearing what I told them to, eating what is placed in front of them, & being quiet.
And I’d probably be locked up for it.
Also, I am aware that there are special situations. Kids don’t feel well, but for emergencies you have to take them out. I get it.
In rare instances, kids have autism. I do not recognize ADD. In horses that can’t pay attention, you lunge till they wear the edge off before climbing aboard for a six hour trail ride or hour lesson to calm them down. Maybe those type of kids need less sugar & more activities. I see this behavior in my line of work, too, & I refuse to talk over someone’s bratty kid. I will just stand there smiling politely (looking a bit strained, I’m sure) until the parent takes control & we can speak in normal tones. This has never been a problem. And no, a crying baby doesn’t count. They really can’t help it. And that’s a whole ‘nother post.
I don’t understand why parents think in order to give their kids a better life than what they had, they have to submit & cater to their child’s every whim.
And what was so bad about our childhood, really? What did it matter to not have a matching pair of shoes for every outfit? What was so bad about waiting for the latest video game to go on sale, or not getting it till Christmas or your birthday? I guess I’m just mad. Look at the world. Are parents teaching them about soldiers overseas, separated from their kids to keep the rest of us safe? Are they teaching them about the biggest sacrifice ever, Jesus Christ? Or are they just letting them believe that they will always pick up the pieces when the kid makes one bad decision after another.
Sorry, I know I’m preachin’ to the choir.
I would be less embarrased to have someone witness me giving a spanking that they dissaproved of than someone witness my kids acting like uncivilized monkeys.
“You know, you call a local store hunting a part for a lawnmower, & you expect to get a local person,” Crapbag is saying to me.
Co-op, Wayne Blalock’s, & Cash Hardware are all closed today, so I’m not sure who he’s referring to, but I play along.
“Oh yeah?”
“And guess what I get? A damn Yankee!” He spits. He then chuckles without mirth. (Mirthlessly, it turns out, is not a word.) “I’m not sure he’s ever even laid eyes on a lawnmower, let alone sold a part to one.”
The problem is, of course, he can’t wait for me to go to Coop tomorrow & pick up this wheel thingie. Must. Have. It. Now.
He goes on to describe the entire conversation. I will spare you the details. Don’t ever say I lack compassion. It involves Home Depot. “So, do they have one or do you not know any more than you did before you called?”
“I don’t know any more than I did before I called.” He’s looking online. “Yeah, here it is. And they’ve got one.”
“You wanna run by there before we go to the hospital?”
He blinks at me. “To Sevierville?”
My turn to blink. “Oh, well, check Knoxville.”
“Where’s one at in Knoxville?”
“Down here by Walmart,” I say, in the tone of ‘duh’. He’s still looking at & blinking. “On the hill???” I continue.
*Blink. Blink*
“You KNOW. They’re up there on the right!” I’m throwing my harm around to indicate. “You’ve been there. We’ve went TOGETHER. Big parking lot? You walk in & lawn & garden is on your left. Stop blinking at me!!!!”
*Blink. Blink.* “Which Walmart?”
“OUR Walmart. South Knoxville. Tan building, great big orange Home Depot letters across the front?”
His eyes clear.
“Oh yeah. Let me call them.”
“Sorry for blinking at you, Amy,” I call over my shoulder as he steps outside to read the model number off.
“Did they have it?” I asked when he came back in.
“Yeah.”
“Did you get a Southerner?”
“Yeah.”
I sigh & go back to my book.
