Eye Makeup Remover is Serious Stuff

Once upon a time, when Sephora would have their 20% off events, I would stock up on enough makeup to last me quite some time. So it was only a few months ago that I noticed I was on my last bottle of Philosophy Just Release Me eye makeup remover. 

I moseyed over to the internet to find my baby, only to discover that it had been discontinued. 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Before you pat me on the back in a comforting fashion, bear in mind it took me forever to find Just Release Me in the first place. The usual favorite, by Lancome, left behind a greasy residue (in my mind). Every other product I tried merely smeared the mascara into racoon circles around my eyes, as opposed to removing it. 

I researched "dupe" frantically, and found an obscure post on an obscure blog claiming that they, too, panicked at the disappearance of Just Release Me, but found that the eye makeup remover by Neutrogena was an excellent replacement. It even had the same ingredients, the blogger wrote. 

I was dubious, as I had tried nearly every drugstore eye makeup remover already and they were disappointing. But, I tend to believe everyone's recommendations so I thought I'd give it a whirl. 

And . . . she was right! 

So, while I feel slightly stupid for paying so much over these past who knows how many years, I am thankful I do not have to rub my eyes into an early wrinkly future. Shiver.

I Still Got It

While I on my morning walk last week, I pushed the stroller with one hand and kept my cell in the other. 

Luke and I had somehow ended up going from light chit chat to a fierce Biblical debate. He was of the opinion that if Moshe had not hit the rock, history could have been different. If the Jews had his leadership in the Land, he argued, instead of Yehoshua's, things could have gone another way.  

I was of the belief that the punishment was merely that he could not be buried in Eretz Yisroel, as he was not supposed to lead them into the Land in any case. Moshe was the leader of miracles, who had to teach a nation to cast off the shackles of slavery and become free men. Now, with their liberated mindset, they had to leave the miraculous existence and fight for the land. Because one only cherishes that which is fought for. The way we fight for the Land today and cherish it all the more for it.

Luke kept insisting I was denying bechira, while I countered that Moshe was punished with burial outside the Land, not death. Prior, he could have been buried in the Land, but now he could not.

I walked amongst the newly sprung vegetation, everything vibrant and green, the way it was supposedly on Har Sinai. 

I'm guessing he finally, begrudgingly, heard my argument because after a motley of somewhat incoherent voice notes, he ceased on that topic, and started quoting Lord of the Rings instead. 

I felt a rush of exhilaration during this exchange, and bounced along cheerfully as I headed home.  

This past year has been rather sleep-deprived, and I haven't been able to read dvar Torahs without nodding off. I can't really listen to shiurim; Ben insists on nursery songs. 

But now I know that I haven't lost it, and that I can reclaim it again when I am allowed to do so.  

A few hours later I was talking to Ta, and told him over my conversation with Luke. Of course he corrected me, that Moshe was punished that he could not enter the Land. 

But Ta was able to add the reason why Moshe was not buried in the Land. When the daughters of Yisro are rescued by him, they identify him as an "Ish Mitzri" to their father. Yosef, however, was described as an "Eved Ivri" by the Saar HaMashkim. Yosef identified himself as a Jew, while Moshe was perceived as an Egyptian. Yosef was zoche to be buried in the Land; Moshe was not allowed. 

Ah, geshmack. 

Keep Your Lips to Yourself

One of my cringey memories is of the time I accidentally kissed the hostess of a simcha on the lips. I was angling for one cheek, she headed the other way, and, well . . . 

Apparently, mine was not a unique situation. Nick Haramis writes he did the same thing to Miuccia Prada. At least I was on friendly terms with lady I smooched; I don't think Miuccia was thrilled when a random fashion editor pecked her mouth. 

The article is about la bise, the French cheek kiss, and how it is doomed now in the age of corona-hygiene. Dr. Fauci thinks that hand shaking should be banned forevermore (yay!), so actual smooching is going the way of the dodo. 

Haramis hysterically relates all the kisses that went wrong. 

. . . when I fail — as I often do — it’s rarely pretty. One time, I got a publicist’s earring lodged between the arm of my glasses and a sprout of unkempt sideburn. Another time, I went in for the initial right-to-right cheek smack (as is customary in Paris) only to realize that the person I’d been introduced to was from Italy (where they usually begin on the opposite side). In another instance, after I’d absolutely nailed the double kiss, my Belgian acquaintance ruined everything by going back in for a triple-dip. The agreed-upon number of kisses varies not only across countries but across regions within countries.

Hey, I'm happy to never air-kiss a roomful of perfumed and makeuped women again. You know how stressful it is to get jostled at a delicate moment and have your painted lips desecrate another's cheek?

But it is, however, simultaneously sad. I have a cousin who gives excellent hugs. You feel amazing afterward. She won't hug me again, probably. 

Who Is Worthy of Love?

In a sort of continuation from my previous post, this article analyzes the rom-com's dislike of capable, professional, "demanding" women. 

Alexis Soloski eviscerates the trope, as the hero "must" be rescued from the no-nonsense fiance that he, we presume, willingly dated until the floaty girl-woman flits by. 

Soloski references Baroness Schraeder from "The Sound of Music." As a child, I knew I was supposed to dislike her, but why, really? Her wardrobe is divine, she oozes wit, intelligence, and sophistication, and is, one would think, more appropriate for the brisk, grim Captain than an unworldly former nun who is probably 20 years, at least, his junior. 

"Behind every great man is a great woman"—I can assure you those women kick keister. 

The other side of the coin is the "boring boyfriend," that is not "exciting enough" for the heroine. He's nice, but seemingly bland. I'm still recovering from the improbable ending of "Sweet Home Alabama," when Reese Witherspoon tells Patrick Dempsey at the altar that she can't marry him because she loves someone else. His response is to smile angelically and reassures her he understands. Puh-leez.  

Undergirding these characters, almost all of them created by men, is a troubling male fantasy, that the ideal woman will depend on a man almost entirely, but ask nothing from him and that women who do ask are too much trouble. Who decided that women who know what they want and ask for it are monsters and that men who don’t know and don’t ask are simps? Clichés like these efface the complications of real relationships. Sometimes we leave nice people. Sometimes nice people leave us. And maybe assertive, uptight women don’t even need a man to live happily ever after. But if they want one, they should get him.

We all know no-nonsense women that are married, as are milquetoast men. The popular girl in school was never the wide-eyed naif; it's the commandant of the classroom. She gets her man, and not by standing idly by.

Enough

I recently read "The Matchmaker's List" by Sonya Lalli, about a woman of Indian heritage who is under constant pressure by her beloved grandmother to get married already. 

At one point, the granddaughter begs, crying, for her to please stop. She loves her Nani, but this insistence was driving her away. No matter the grandmother's intentions, the message received was: You are not enough. You need someone else to complete you.  

While I did want to marry during my years and years of dating, I did not like being viewed as dofek simply because I was single. Not married? Not only are you not enough, there must be something wrong with you to boot. 

The emphasis on marriage, however, is not only from our religious community. This article notes that it's a steady message in American culture—heck, look at the reality shows. It's all about a wedding. 

I spent my youth reading books and watching comedies about women frantic to marry. Now I've tired of that storyline. I still enjoy romance, but not along the lines of insecure females acting nervously goofy in a desperate attempt to woo an improbably gorgeous man (or vice versa, for that matter). 

The stories I like better is when characters know the difference between what they can control and what they can't. They know they can't make Prince Charming walk through the door, but are open to his arrival, and don't push him away for lame reasons. ("The Unhoneymooners" by Christina Lauren was hysterical and MA). 

It's absolutely ridiculous how I was treated by some when I was single. Because we are enough, no matter our relationship status. 

Optimistic Faith

I was beginning to read a profile on Val Kilmer (I had seen a few of his movies in my youth and had a wee crush on him way back when—he was ridiculously pretty) and in the first few paragraphs, I was stunned with this line: 

" . . . if you have enough faith, you’ll see how every part of your life is just a piece of a bigger part of your life, and nothing is an accident, and everything is good." 

Oh, WOW.  

He's a Christian Scientist, but still, that line applies to all people of faith. 

"It was the special kind of optimism that maybe only the faithful have, the enduring belief that some force will come along and save us from the centrifuge of despair we’ve found ourselves in."

Is it possible to have optimism without faith?  

In my case, while I think have the faith, I also look at circumstances through a historical viewpoint. The Black Death occurred in a time when people had very little knowledge of germ theory and hygiene. The fact that an illness can be recognized and we somewhat know what to do to prevent the spread is progress indeed. 

I'm sure those who endured the Plague thought the end was nigh. As I recall, the mortality rate was approximately 50%. 

History has shown that humans are sturdier than they believe. Perhaps it is belief that keeps them going.

Ah, Nostalgia

Han has been a little desperate for new television options, and in that desperation, he's, um, well, watching Gilmore Girls. This is what he's reduced to after finishing The Americans. 

He came to me a bit puzzled as to why Dean likes Rory. In my opinion, Alexis Bledel is as cute as a button in those early episodes, but then he answered his own question: "Oh yeah, he was taken that she was reading so intently that when something loud happened she didn't even notice." 

I burst out laughing. Even Gilmore Girls peddled the romantic clichés of every girls fantasy. "Ooooh, he loves her 'cause she reads." Golly, I can't believe I fell for that. 

Han then brought me his iPad, laughing at this scene:

  

The humor here is that Rune, who is miles out of Lorelai's league, finds Lorelai hideous. 

That probably describes a number of my bad dates in a nutshell. 

Han was particularly annoyed how the relationship between Lorelai and Rory's teacher fell apart for nebulous reasons. I reminded him that this is television, and it suited the writers to keep Lorelai single, and we all know who she was meant to end up with anyway (no spoilers from me).

Tefilah

Jasmine is the office "mommy." She's warm, cuddly, the type you want to confide in. She has three beautiful children. She has not been married to her (jerk) ex-husband for a number of years.

A few months ago (before the corona madness began in earnest), she stopped by my desk and asked me to pray for her. She grew up Christian, but the type of uptight Christian that preaches constant hellfire and brimstone, so she's drifted away from that. 

She explained that she considers herself as "spiritual." I can attest that she's a good person, a moral person, and believes in God. Nor is she elitist, as she believes all prayers have validity, including mine. She tries to do the right thing. She's kind to others.

She started seeing this guy, she said happily, and she's excited about it. The type of excited that she can't sleep at night, wondering what will be (golly, that sounds all too familiar).  

She's a freelancer; another one of her employers is frum. He told her he would pray for her at the Western Wall, that she can find her man. 

I've always struggled a bit with the concept of prayer. I've asked many rabbanim about it, and many couldn't quite give me an answer. 

Because if: 

(a) Everything Hashem does for me is for the good; and 
(b) I don't know what is good for me; then 
(c) should I be davening for specific things? 

I believe that I am small, so small I cannot possibly fathom His reasons. I was davening for years to find my bashert, but because I was single I was able to devote all of my time to Ma when she became ill. 

I don't want to daven as though I'm banging my head against a brick wall, only to realize that my salvation was the other way. 

I try to daven for guidance. I try to daven that I make the best possible choice in whatever situation I end up in. I daven in gratitude, asking that health and peace and comfort continue for us all. 

I do have a list of single ladies I daven for. Now I daven for Jasmine too. 

For me, davening is sort of confusing. I'm not sure what my intent should be, what the outcome is. Will I have the clarity to see His plan? My vision sucks as it is.  

Over the years, my list of single ladies has dwindled. I don't believe it was because of me. But I'm joyous when I can strike another one off as she prances off with her beloved. 

Davening is what we do. So I'll continue too, even if I don't quite understand what I'm aiming for.

"Yes, I Can!"

I come from a line of dedicated TV watchers, and Ben takes after me in that he'll watch any moving screen. His current preference is by a channel or something called Super Simple Songs, which churn out baby-friendly song clips. "The Ants Go Marching" is unfortunately stuck in both mine and Han's heads. 

One of the songs is "Yes, I Can!" It sort of goes like this: 

Little bird, little bird can you clap? 

No I can't, no I can't, I can't clap. 

Little bird, little bird, can you fly? 

Yes I can, yes I can, I can fly!

Elephant, elephant, can you fly? 

No I can't, no I can't, I can't fly. 

Elephant, elephant, can you stomp? 

Yes I can, yes I can, I can stomp! 

And so on. A list of animals that are asked if they can do something they can't, then asked to do something they can. 

It made me think of people. We aren't much different. Han and I joke about the lyrics from "Reading Rainbow": "I caaaan do ANYTHING!" Yeah, can you fly? Splat. Humans, without a motley of expensive and complicated accoutrements, can't fly. Doesn't make them less than birds, though. 

We each have our own abilities. It doesn't mean if someone lacks our gifts and possesses their own that we have to start competing. 

I'm an early bird. I bake with whole wheat flour. I can recite one Shakespearean sonnet by heart. Others thrive in the night, can make unicorn cakes, and do coding.

Ma believed that one can learn something from anyone. She left behind a tower of notebooks, scribbled with bits of information she gathered ranging from cooking to philosophy to child-rearing to homeopathy.  

I try to hold by the same belief, consciously being open to what others share. Sometimes it works; often it doesn't. It doesn't mean that their suggestion wasn't good, it just wasn't good for me. 

When our insecurities are in high gear, other people's skills and beliefs can be a threat. But like the many animal species out there, one person is capable of "clapping," but can't "fly"; another can "fly," but can't "stomp"; she can "stomp," but can't "swim." 

Let's focus on our unique abilities.

No Such Thing as Chance

"Have you ever thought about how small the chances are that you would be born? If just one thing in history had changed, just one of your millions of ancestors hadn't crossed paths at the exact moment they did, then you wouldn't exist. You'd never have even lived a single day." 

That bit was from Love Wedding Repeat, a mildly amusing movie on Netflix. The first chunk of the film shows what would happen if one thing, one thing had gone differently, how the outcome could have either been catastrophic for all or happy endings everywhere. 

I have moments when I think, "I wish Ben could have known Ma," but then I realize that if Ma hadn't died, chances are there would be no Ben. There would be someone else in his place, very possibly a horrifically crabby baby who I would not want to introduce to anyone. 

We don't believe in chance. But we don't see the system that's in place. There's a mind-boggling confluence of factors that we can't keep track of. 

In The Good Place episode Pandemonium, Janet, a sort of walking computer database with some nifty abilities (like Data), says: 

Janet: The more human I become, the less things make sense. But that's part of the fun, right?

Eleanor: What do you mean?

Janet: If there were an answer I could give you to how the universe works, it wouldn't be special. It would just be machinery fulfilling its cosmic design. It would just be a big, dumb food processor. But since nothing seems to make sense, when you find something or someone that does, it's euphoria. 

There's a whole debate about bashert. When dating, the conversation is all about cutting losses, settling, analyzing wardrobes, dissecting conversation, and I believed in it after all those years of dating. I thought choosing a life partner was going to require sitting down and rationally weighing pros and cons, but with Han I felt a "click" I never did before. I'm now all about the bashert, y'all. 

If we knew all the answers—tzaadik v'ra lo, what does the next world look like, why do I suddenly need something the second I throw it out after it was sitting in a closet for five years—what would be the point? 

But consider: We are all miracles. I'm not the first person to gaze, dewy-eyed, at her baby and marvel at all of his working parts, his developing brain, the emerging personality. Han recalled that his friend, a doctor, had to first study embryology, the subject of all things that can go wrong in utero. 

Whatever happens is supposed to happen. I was supposed to date for freakin' forever. Ma was supposed to die. Han and I were supposed to marry when we did. Ben was supposed to be born.  

We don't know why. We didn't program this simulation. We can only recognize the beauty in it.