The Lost Art of Being a Dame

One of the Biggest Influences on My Life is This (Really)

I first saw this Betty Boop cartoon on TV when I was about 8. (Back then they routinely showed the old Betty Boop and Popeye cartoons in the afternoons.) I sat transfixed. I was always drawn to Betty Boop -- her optimism, openness, her ability to talk to and commandeer inanimate objects and flowers. But the part where Cab Calloway sings "St. James Infirmary" just blew my little mind. You know how sometimes you have an experience or encounter a piece of art where you just feel like "This, THIS is for me. This speaks to me. This IS me." That's how I felt about this song. And almost 40 years later, I still do.

This Would Be My IDEAL Wedding Dress....

You Know You're a Bridezilla If...

I never thought it would happen to me, but it has. I have caught bridal fever. I flip through bride magazines and stop at the odd page and think, "Now that's a helluva veil." I fall asleep at night endlessly re-working seating plans  in my head. I troll ebay, OnceWed and Pre-OwnedWeddingDresses.com for used wedding dresses despite the fact I just may have already bought one (or three) ones. But in no way am I one of them there Bridezillas. I really just want people to have a good time and be happy. I mainly, mostly just want to dance. I want to use the word husband, I want to get an updo, and I want to enjoy having all the people we love and cherish around us. I think of the wedding as a big party, the only party I've actually ever thrown in all my life, and I just don't want to screw it up and not go broke (not necessarily in that order).

Anyway, about two years ago I was asked to write some lines for a certain TV network's website on the topic  "YOU KNOW YOU'RE A BRIDEZILLA IF. . . " They didn't use all of them, so I am re-printing them here. 

YOU KNOW YOU'RE A BRIDEZILLA IF. . . 

You can't believe the reception hall won't allow Cirque De Soleil to attach harnesses to the ceiling.

 

The Vatican can't accommodate your veil.

White tigers and/or helicopters are involved.

White tigers air-lifted in by helicopters are involved.

When noticing the lengthy guest list, you ask your fiancée if he really has to invite both parents.

Your friends stage an intervention. And they bring a priest, holy water, and some restraints.

Ask your cousins if they could just choose one person to represent all of them; ideally that person would be an attractive stranger.

You think Donald Trump's last wedding was "smallish."

Al Gore calls to say he's concerned your floral needs will affect the Earth's fragile eco-balance.

You named your dogs Vera Wang, Martha Stewart and Gift Registry.

Your wedding planner has a restraining order against you.

 

You eliminate the flower girls because they're thinner than you.

You hire Maya Angelou to punch up the vows.

You hire Spielberg to shoot the wedding video.

You need scaffolding to get into your dress.

Despite the fact the groom has broken engagement you still plan to go ahead with the wedding.

 You're already planning your next wedding.

There's a Thin Line Between Cute Chick and Crazy Lady

It seems unfair that as you get older, and more confident and secure about your own personal style, your options diminish with each passing empowering year. Now that I'm no longer clueless and ready to really feel my oats fashion-wise, I find I have to be more cautious than ever. There are several reasons for this, and only one of them has to do with my thighs. 

I've always loved old movies, and when I was in my teens and 20's I expressed my enthusiasm for Hollywood's heyday by wearing vintage clothes wherever I went. Back in those days, I'd gingerly troll the fragile thrift store racks for anything even remotely Ginger Rogers-ish. It was easy to find fitted jackets a la Joan Crawford, printed 40's rayon frocks, and slinky nightgowns I was certain made me a ringer for Jean Harlow. And when I went to school, or to work, or to vote, no one thought twice about the girl walking around in a night gown and cowboy boots. I was "quirky," I was "cute," and to very charitable I was even "charming." As I passed a couple of older women wearing bemused smiles I assumed they were thinking, "My, how nice to see a young person embracing the past." If a convenience store clerk stared, I knew it was because the clocks and poodles pattern on my 30's blouse was so fetching. 

Those days are gone. 

I find that when a woman is d'un certain age (that's the classy French way of saying too old to be a "Gossip Girl" but not quite dead) she must remember that while she sees her outfit as insouciant or bohemian, to the citizenry at large it may read as "bag lady." While it's true many designers have of late been inspired by the "Grey Gardens look," note that, 1) it is all displayed on seventeen-year-old girls, and 2) the actual women who invented this look are considered to be nuttier than a squirrel's cheeks November. If I try wearing a sweatshirt wrapped around my head as a turban they won't come after me with cameras, they'll come after me with nets. And I fear if I wear one of my old dilapidating vintage frocks I'll look homeless, or at the very least hopeless. Same thing with my Betsey Johnsons. I have amassed over the years, roughly speaking, about 10 million Betsey Johnson dresses. But now before I put one on, each time I wonder do I look fetching, or do I look all Baby Jane? Does my stand-by sexy LBD make me look look cool, hot, or like a desperate cougar? Sure, that dress looks good in Vogue, but will it be a Norma Desmond moment when I put it on? 

I could be over-thinking this. I mean, Ms. Johnson is making her whole mutton-dressed-as-lamb work for her. And those actresses for whom it doesn't (cough-Sally Kirkland-cough), they may actually really BE desperate. Still, think about this: Would Scarlet O'Hara have thought twice about donning curtains if she'd been 20 years older? Because sometimes a dress-cum-curtain is a daring, avant-garde fashion statement -- and sometimes you're just a nut walking around in your drapes..

Lash Whipped

It’s finally come to this; I’ve found an even minisculer part of my body to obsess me. As if endlessly abusing what is delicately referred to as my “bikini area” weren’t enough, I recently began tormenting another fragile part of my anatomy.  Poor eyelashes, they never knew what hit ‘em.

 For most of my life my eyelashes were able to escape the bouts of critical frenzy to which I periodically subjected my body. The only real eyelash-related decision I can ever recall making was the “to use navy mascara or not to use navy mascara?” question. Good ole reliable pink-and-green did the job, and its simple wand dispensed all the magic my eyelashes needed – I thought.

 Then I met my real estate agent, Sherri, who sported the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. It was hard to concentrate on anything she said, such was the mesmerizing power of those fuzzy suckers. “Mama want,” I drooled; I needed some of that mind-clouding glamour. I’d heard about lash extensions, so right before this big date I threw myself into making myself as eye-popping, breath-taking, and groin-tingling as possible and I dived in and pimped my peepers.

 I willingly plunked down $450 to lie on a table for 2 hours while an Albanian woman with post-nasal drip painstakingly applied individual lashes to my taped-shut lids. We’d haggled over how long the faux fringe should be; she suggested a “somewhat natural look” while I was a proponent of the “Carol Channing Meets Las Vegas Showgirl look.” (We settled on “everyday drag queen” length.)

 I LOVED the results. When I looked in the mirror instead of my usual squinty Zellwegger eyes I saw big, Bambi , bat-worthy lashes. They gave me a fuzzy feeling (literally) and put a spring in my step. My life would heretofore be measured as Before Lashes (B.L.) and After Lashes (A.L.). There were only 2 problems:

1.    The fix was short. My lash high needed constant touch-ups at $100 a pop.  Lashes were supposed to last a month, but they really started looking puny and all normal by week three.

2.    Maybe because mine were burlesque queen long, but a lash was always getting stuck in my eye. I’d end up absent-mindedly tweaking and pulling at them, which not only hastened their demise but made my own eyelashes come out right with them. By the end of the month I had less lashes than I’d started with, and I knew I had to end the vicious cycle.

 By now I was used to my super-sized baby browns, and felt Quasimodo-y with my paltry ole lashes. I tested out several mascaras, including FiberWig and the Lancome mascara trilogy. Eh. Then I decided to drop some science on my lids: I lay down 150 big ones for RevitaLash, this stuff that’s supposed to actually encourage lash growth.  I’ve heard from, oh, at least 2 people that the stuff really works. Though now solidly a member of the Lash Club for Idiots, I was still daunted by the instructions. Warning after warning made it sound like if you get even a molecule of this stuff you’re swiping on your eyelids into your actual eyes you would go blind, explode, or possibly catch on fire.

 Despite the scary warnings, I have started painting this stuff at my lash line each night before bed. I’ll let you know whether I grow long, lovely lashes or go blind. Clearly, I’ve already gone mad. 

 (And yes, for those of you doing the math, yes, I’ve spent over $600 on my eyelashes. Don't worry, I'm whipping myself in my lash-induced shame spiral.)