Whooo, Doggy!

Upon my recent visits to the dog park, I have observed that some aggressive/dominant dogs zero in on the less extroverted ones and try to annoy them. Sometimes they try to mount, but often it's just a dog's equivalent of poking someone in the shoulder and saying, "Hey you." I am impressed by the dogs who, rather than choosing to run or to fall to the ground, simply turn their backs on the offending hound. Invariably, the aggressor finds himself diminished in the eyes of his peers, and he goes on his way.

I tried this with a person the other day. I didn't like what he was saying, so I turned around and stood with my back to him until he went away.

Stuff That Makes Me Look/Feel/Seem Less Elderly

So some of my friends talk about being flummoxed by the arriving at a "certain age" and selecting from the ocean of products available. This year, I found myself at looking in the mirror and seeing stuff on my face that didn't used to be there. Here's some stuff that I like that seems to be doing the trick:

Mom Spit No-Rinse Cleanser - Nothing makes you look dowdier than spit-shining your child in public.
Dickinson's Witch Hazel - A classic. Been using this since high school, and still gets my skin super-clean. Don't reinvent the wheel.
L'Oreal Skin Genesis Serum Concentrate - I like this A LOT. Has instant brightening/smoothing effects.
Smashbox Photo Finish Foundation Primer SPF 15 and Dermaxyl - So important for keeping foundation and powder out of sneaky creases.
Benefit Ooh La Lift - A surefire product I found in my twenties, when fabulous parties and the whimsy of youth kept me up too late. Now I rely on it as an eye-debagger after a night nursing growing pains and earaches.
The Balm Hot Mama - Slightly shimmery, very flattering, and it does double-duty as eyeshadow. Don't go anywhere without it.
LCD Soundsystem, "Sound of Silver" - Gets me going on tough mornings.

How Was My Day? Thanks for Asking.

I always get a little sad this time of year. It's the end of the summer, and soon I will have to start showering and brushing my hair in the morning. I have compiled a list of things I will miss about Summer 2010:

1. Not showering or brushing my hair in the morning.
2. Getting dressed at noon.
3. Pretending I am an heiress who is running from her stifling obligations as a socialite.
4. Celebrating stuffed animal birthdays with my child.
5. Grocery shopping when there are few people in the store.
6. Complaining about the weather with strangers: "It's not the heat, it's the huMIDity!!!"
7. California's Central Coast.
8. The fabulous summer lineup on USA network
9. Hanging out at coffee shops long enough to make people think I may be spying on them for national security reasons.
10. Allowing my daughter to use swimming as an excuse not to bathe.

God Gave Us Advil Cold & Sinus Because He Loves Us.

Sure, there's that business about "his only begotten Son," but he really showed he loved us by giving us almost instantaneous relief from severe sinus congestion. If you don't believe in God, you've never had a sinus infection relieved by the miracle of pseudoephedrine and whatever-the-hell-else is in that stuff.

Why can't people do things exactly the way I like?

Example:
Good: My mom took Madeline to sit for a portrait for holiday cards. Bad: she dressed her like a girl who might work for the telephone company or do lumberjacking, with hair brushed forward like Little Dutch Boy.

In Search of Things Past

No one I know particularly enjoys using public restrooms. Everything about it is distasteful: waiting for your turn, for example, broadcasts to the world that you have to use the toilet. Sometimes you're just waiting to spot-clean the coffee stain from your shirt, but it doesn't matter. People still look at you knowingly. Add to this unpleasantness the adjunct activity of exiting the restroom and meeting - or, in my case, avoiding - the gaze of the person next in line. This is why I tend to limit my visits to these facilities to two minutes or less. If the patron outside is already feeling self-conscious or annoyed, my taking forever will only increase her irritation and make the inevitable walk-by awkward. I like to think that I am a pretty considerate person in this respect. My feeling is that, if you have to attend to something that requires more than five minutes in a public lavatory, you're better off just going home, and I am diligent in applying this standard to myself. But today I was reminded that many people are quite unbothered by the bathroom visit, to the extent that they lounge around inside as if they were preparing a decadent Saturday night bubble bath. I waited so long today that I expected the woman to emerge in a negligee holding a pair of champagne flutes. When she finally did reappear, I couldn't help but notice that she was not wearing a negligee and didn't look refreshed; instead, she scurried past me and shinnied up against the wall, her eyes averted and her face a mask of terror and shame. I stepped into the restroom and discovered the reason for her furtive escape. The air was heavy with stench, and I think the temperature in the tiny room was ten degrees hotter than outside in the hallway. I tend to avoid inhalation in every public restroom, but the miasma was so pernicious that even the cessation of breathing couldn't mask it. My instinct was to flee, but I'd drunk too much coffee, and so resigned myself to a minute of torture. I became consumed with the desire to run out into the busy coffee shop to find that woman, put my finger in her face and, in my best Marat impression, shout, "J'accuse!" Really, I wanted to go right up and ask her what the matter was with her, who did she think she was, and explain the proper etiquette. Once I was out of the bathroom, I avoided scanning the room so that I could look pointedly in her direction, which was all I'd be able to muster. And anyway, I forgot about the whole thing pretty quickly. But still. I mean, come on.

DailyFail

Last evening, I was dining out with my family at a local all-you-can eat buffet (one might consider this to be its own kind of failure). As we enjoyed our dinner, I let slip a spoonful of mashed potato down my shirt.

The appropriate thing to do would have been to excuse myself and retrieve the errant food in the privacy of a bathroom stall. Instead, I thought that I could reach down my shirt and grab the potato in a way that would escape the notice of 30 or so other diners. Perhaps if I had dropped a carrot or a french fry down there, I could have pulled this off. But mashed potato is a tricky customer, refusing to remain in a tidy mound; I ended up smearing most of it around my sternum and inside placket of my shirt, while a few knavish bits settled into other areas.
And, of course, it was a family of four with two young children who passed my table at the time. The smaller boy looked to his mother in confusion, simply pointing and asking, "What's that lady doing?"