A Walk in the Snark (3 page)

Do women wear makeup for ourselves, our men, or other women? Hell if I know. What I do know is that I’m not going anywhere without my lipstick and mascara…oh, and under eye concealer. Can’t forget that.

Doesn’t matter who’s looking at me. I love makeup and it loves me. Or something.

Deal with it.

I may not look like Pat Benatar, but I can rock a red lip, damn it. Every chick has the right to play with her pots and potions.

Do not rush me. You will pay.

“
You look fine. Let’s go.”
This is what my guy always says, tapping his foot impatiently as I put on my makeup...

But here’s the thing.

I don’t want to just look
fine
. I want to look great, wonderful, knock-his-socks-off fantastic.

Or, at least some days, good enough to fake it.

And I know that I can with a little help from my secret potions—mascara, lipstick, and concealer. If, given more time, eye shadow. Well, and eyeliner. And a little foundation. Oh, and some powder, too.

Hurry, somebody stop me...

My mother has never been much of a makeup wearer. She, like many women of the Fifties, put on her lipstick, drew on her brows, and off she went into the world. Hello!

My older sister and I were lucky enough to be born with large eyes and long lashes—and no clue what to do with them. So what did we do? We did what all daughters everywhere do—went to our dad for advice. Huh?

Well, given that Dad was a manager for Longs Drugs, we soon had his fake-eyelashed cosmetician at our beck and call for personalized instruction—along with the cost plus 10 percent discount on all makeup. Woo-hoo. (
First lesson: You don’t pluck your brows—you pluck a chicken. You
tweeze
your brows.
)

After much trial and error (we really don’t have to discuss that unfortunate lavender mascara, do we?), I’ve become adept over the years at putting on just enough to look like I’m not wearing any, or banging it out for a big night on the town.

I did have major lipstick anxiety when I found out I was pregnant the first time. My husband never seemed to mind getting lipstick on him—he liked knowing he’d been kissed. Yet I started to worry how on earth was I going to kiss my baby’s precious cheeks (and soft tush and chubby legs and tiny toes) without covering them in goop?

This was most certainly not covered in the pregnancy bible
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
—and I had the most updated edition.

Did being a new mother mean I had to give up lipstick?

Oh. My. God.

The husband just shook his head. He clearly didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. Men.

I’d ask my friends with new babies
not
“How was labor?” or “Is breastfeeding difficult?” but “How do you kiss her and not cover her in sticky gloss?”

I
really
needed to know.

But they were no help—they just wanted to talk about poop.

Thankfully, my trusty Chanel came to the rescue. They make this fabulous Ultra Wear Lip Colour—I don’t know what’s in it, but I do know that it must have been created by NASA or something because it doesn’t dry your lips out and the color stays on forever. It still looks good after kissing your guy or your baby—
and
after drinking martinis—always a plus.

Both of my men love it—the little guy calls it “magic lipstick” because I can sneak in kisses on his amazing cheeks and he doesn’t get all goopy. The husband loves it because there’s no taste—he hates glosses that have a taste (can’t say I blame him) and it’s the all-important “Can you put this in your pocket?” size slim.

If you are a guy reading this, go buy your chick one of these at Nordstrom or Saks— it retails for around $34—pricey yes, but so what? Think of all the kissing you can do and she won’t be worrying about fixing her makeup. Plus, you get major points for actually knowing what Chanel is.

Of course, my honey still says I look great without all that “stuff.” Mostly I think it’s because he’s just hungry and wants me to decide already
where we are going to eat
, damn it.

So I reply, “Thanks—that’s so sweet. Now go away. I’m putting on my makeup.”

***

*Poignancy Alert*

Occasionally I take a departure from the funny and talk about, oh, real life stuff. Stuff that not even I can make funny. So if you picked up this book just for the funny, skip this section and any other with a poignancy alert tag.

Don’t worry… I’m not watching :-)

But if you would like a look at the more serious side of Rachel in the OC, read on…

INTRODUCTION

I don’t believe there’s a Girl Scout badge for something like this.

I had no idea how the unexpected suicide of a man I once loved intensely would affect me.

A man who crushed me with the weight of his love to the point that I had to make a choice: end it or go forward with our emotional roller coaster of intensity, accepting the scars and heartbreak along with the soaring highs.

I couldn’t do it. I let go.

For twenty years, I had let him go. I had moved on with my life. Married, had children, lived life.

When he contacted me in the fall of ’09, it shook me. Did I want to revisit the ghosts of all that had, at one time, broken me? I was torn. But, there were many unanswered questions. For those who believe in closure, I did not have anything like that. Perhaps this was a way to get that—for both of us.

I found our conversations engaging, brave. I didn’t hold back or go easy on him; he was apologetic, tender. His attention to detail shocked me—I had filed and locked safely away much of what he remembered about our good times. Our attraction was magnetic, his strength—undeniable. His temper, jealousy, and alcohol were always issues, but it was his cheating that buried itself deep within me and shaped who I ultimately became.

We spoke intently for several months, mostly online. A single dad with a young son, I’m not sure what he hoped for. Intimacy, a reconnection, friendship. ( It took only moments—a look—and that was it. We were on our course.) We said so much during those few short months, crafting ourselves carefully into something unique…yet much remained unspoken.

I didn’t know that he had recently attempted suicide twice before with alcohol and drugs. This time he took no chances. He was a hunter; he made sure he used a gun.

Unknowingly, I started writing many of my pieces about him with a “D” in the title, the first letter of his name. I didn’t realize this until I started editing this book. Clearly, my subconscious also grapples with his death.

D came back for me, in his own way. I left him for a reason and I don’t idealize who he was. Yet it took courage on his part to contact me at all, to be a man and stand up for his mistakes.

His silence leaves me breathless...

HE LOVED ME THAT MUCH

My twenties were very different from the funny, tightly knit group seen on Friends.

Maybe that’s why I loved the show so much—it was the complete antithesis of my experience.

Part of the reason is that I was deeply in love with a man, D, who was the very protective, jealous type. I thought that was love. It certainly felt that way. Working together at Longs with him created a difficult dynamic when it came to my social life with others.

When I read an article, about a college girl killed by her jealous boyfriend, it struck me with full force how, to a certain extent, my situation was similar to this girl’s. Not in the physical abuse that Yeardley suffered, or the verbal, mental stuff that went on.

Adding to all that was the fact that he had contacted me out of the blue in summer ’09, and the crazy aftermath of that; I felt compelled to write about it.

I read with sad interest about the murder case of young, beautiful college senior Yeardley Love. When she attempted to break up with her handsome, wealthy boyfriend he shook her, repeatedly hitting her head against a wall until she died. She was found later, lying in a pool of blood, alone.

Many of her lacrosse teammates and friends, at the University of Virginia, where she was a star player, knew that she was in an abusive relationship. As did his. In fact, two of his teammates had to pull him off Yeardley during a violent rage only a few months prior to her death. And supposedly there is evidence of texts and e-mails threatening to kill her just days prior.

Yet, she stayed with him. This bright, beautiful girl who was just weeks away from graduating with a degree in political science. Known to all as thoughtful, giving, fun, positive.

How could she have been stupid enough to stay? Ah, there is the rub.

I feel fortunate to say that I’ve never been with a man who hit me. But I have been with a man who was violent. Who hit others, frequently, in jealous rages, over me. Who punched walls in anger when we argued. Who verbally abused me. Why?

Because he loved me.

It sounds so silly and trite. But this was my first real love affair. I was nineteen, as was he. We met at work. He had an apartment. It all seemed rather grown-up, if you will. And it was great.

At first.

All consuming, as first loves often are. But dating someone you work with can be complicated, gossip invariably encroaches on your little cocoon of whispers and kisses, of late nights spent exploring only each other—and jealousy will flare and rage.

I found that he wanted more and more of my time—something I desperately wanted as well; yet I was putting myself through college and working, which left us precious little time together. Somehow those small intervals we did have degenerated into deflecting work gossip or calming his nerves about guys at school stealing me away.

Still, I found his possessiveness flattering.

Soon we fell into a routine: He would call me to be sure I was home when I said I would be. He would check my answering machine to see if any guys called me. If they had (usually study or lab partners), he would freak, grilling me for hours about the nature of the relationship. He didn’t understand how women could just be friends with guys— that yes, Billy Crystal, it is entirely possible.

I didn’t realize at the time how controlling he had become—I just thought he wanted me, loved me more than most boyfriends did. I felt special, protected, and yes, loved.

When a mutual male friend from work called me to ask if I wanted to come over for a get-together with some work folks, I said sure. Like most young people, my work crew was also my friend crew. My guy was invited, but had to work and couldn’t make it, and therefore didn’t want me to go. I dug my heels in—if the situation was reversed, he would go and would give me all kinds of grief if I were upset. At this point he went out and punched my car.