Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Thursday, October 27, 2011
I worked so hard on my little pumpkin friend. Shaping his face with a carrot peeler and sharpened knife; sculpting cheeks and wrinkles, frowning brows, and a sneer.
Soon, a black spot appeared on his cheek and grew like a porous cancer. I thought that if I laid him on his side, the ventilation moving through his head might dry the tissue and slow the moldy growth. But alas.
As I picked him up, the skull started to cave in, and my fingers began to penetrate the fuzzy gray soft tissue beneath the skin.
I tossed him in the garbage. But first, I stuffed a kleenex into the hole on his face, dribbled on some bright bloody red hot sauce, and left his corpse for Mark to find in the morning.
Happy Week Before Halloween.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Women of all size, race, age, and status come into the shop. Some know who they are and ask for what they need to complete themselves: "I just need some more of my foundation," or "I ran out of Mineral Veil."
Others come in because they're curious; they walk slowly and study the shelves, wondering at the rows of tinted powders. Maybe turning the super-sized lazy susan full of glimmering eyeshadows, then carefully dipping a finger into a pot and scuffing it onto the back of their hands.
The shy and self-conscious, hopefully asking: "Is this really as good as they say?" No mention of the acne boiling from her forehead or the dark spots that betray years of fighting the battle. But there's hope in the eyes that maybe THIS makeup is the one.
And then there are the dissatisfied, frustrated, obsessed. Pinning their life's problems onto a freckle that only they can see: "Can you cover this?" But nobody can.
I want to forget myself. To pass a mirror and skip the disgust because I'm not a size 4 anymore. To get ready for the day and rejoice that for a girl of 54 I'm still doing okay.
Even with a few spots and creases.
Please click on the photo and ready Leilana's story. And give thanks for your own peace - your reasons to smile.
Friday, August 13, 2010
But I feel rotten. I can barely move my neck, my lip hurts because I have a cold sore, and I'm sweaty and exhausted.
Taken separately, I can handle these things - I'm pretty used to the fibromyalgia body pain stuff, and can usually handle it by using my favorite combo: massage and narcotics. Being sweaty and exhausted isn't particularly out of my league either. But the cold sore...
The cold sore pushed me over the edge. For most people, a cold sore is an irritating little blemish. For me, a cold sore is a potentially massive agonizing open wound that leaves a scar, as verified by the 1974 memory on my bottom lip. The first tingle strikes unimaginable terror in my heart. Really.
So today, in the midst of my ick, I naturally searched for a flickr photo of a "garbage dump." And again, I am humbled and embarrassed by what I found.
Pictures of Indian kids sorting through rubbish for scraps of food or stuff to sell. Proving that one can always find some good mixed into the bad - one man's trash is another man's treasure.
Photos of bagged garbage - once people's prized possessions - piled against flood-ravaged homes. The sign of communities coming together to rebuild. Optimism and hope.
And this photo "ice cream man at the garbage dump." Showing me that even though life can be full of crap, you can make a life in the middle of it.
But I still feel rotten.