Lip Brush Found

Lip brushes are vital for applying lipstick. Unlike eyeshadow, or blush, where the more blended, the better, lipstick is reliant upon definition and shape. 

 

I used to depend on a retractable lip brush which has since, most regrettably, fallen apart. I bought a replacement from Maybelline, but I had no success with it. The bristles were too malleable, unequal to the task of picking up pigment and applying it evenly. 

Silly goose that I am, I figured that there was something wrong with my skills, and simply did without, which left my lips looking . . . eh, okay. 

Trying to make a minimum $25 order to make free shipping on Amazon, I purchased for what-the-heck-ness a Revlon Covered Lip Brush. 

It wasn't my fault! It was Maybelline's fault! 

The Revlon brush is made from stiff, synthetic bristles, which easily picks up pigment and dispenses it. The brush has a cat's tongue tip, making it ideal for precise application. ★★★★★, and a thumb's up.

 

Clone Wars

"Well, of course in order to get married one should be in a certain weight range." 

"In order to get married, one should have a certain career." 

"The only way to get married is to dress a certain way." 

Ma snorted. "I'm the last person who could be accused of being a romantic, but the conversation nowadays is ridiculous. Marriage is now a formula." 

True that.

"Men only like girls with straight hair." 

"Women only like men with square jaws." 

Generalizations abound as individuals are carefully placed into boxes, based on their gender, religious affiliation, and hair color. Following these shallow qualifications, we then lead into: 

"The reason you are single is because you are picky," said the person who doesn't know me from a hole in the wall.

When did we become a blank army of clone stormtroopers? 

Melanie Notkin wrote of society's need to blame the singleton. She expresses well the theories people invent for her single state, but concludes, "You don't know what I'm thinking." You don't know who I am, or what I'm looking for.

"If someone is sick," my ill relative noted, "then it came from Hashem. If someone is single, then someone has to be blamed."

While we have a "crisis" for everything, we never say we have an "illness crisis," do we? People do get diagnosed regularly, but even if they didn't take care of themselves, or made bad health choices, we don't whip out the censure. We simply offer support.

Let us hold back the sharp retorts, the snap judgments, or smug satisfaction, and see and hear and recognize the individual. 

Shabbos Lamps: Best Thing Since Sliced Bread

I need to read before I go to sleep. By "need," I mean I won't be able to doze off unless my eyes have scanned words of some sort. Shabbosim, of course, would make that a tad tricky, and usually I would lie on the floor in front of the bathroom door with a pillow. 

Then these blissfully divine Kosher Lamps were available. Goodness me, my life was changed forever, now that I can finally read in the comfort of my own bed on a Friday night. O joy!

But then, for the weekday, I found myself in no hurry to put back my regular lamp that has been with me since I was six. 

I had heard that studies show that artificial light decreases the melatonin hormone, which is fundamental for sleep. My usual lamp would fill the whole room with light; with the Shabbos lamp I can adjust it to shine only a crack of light directly on my book. I think it has helped with my sleep. 

I have become so attached that when I went to my brother for Succos, I took along the little fellow. Except Owen already had one ready and waiting.

Battle of the Bulge: The Brown Bag

I don't brown bag literally. But I do bring my own lunch to work.

1) Sodium is the reason for water weight. No take-out or processed foods, and five pounds are out of the equation. For reals. Same food, homemade, is always better. 

2) Quite frankly, kosher ready-made food costs way too much, and if it doesn't, you get what you pay for. Financially, brown bagging will save you a fortune. Never mind medical bills.

3) After someone who works in the food business told me that it is impossible to have a restaurant kitchen without roaches, I'm good. 

It's not like I don't have opportunities; my office is smack-dab in the center of many options. But my own food always tasted reliably better and I could spend my money at Sephora instead. 

The best gadget I bought was the Crock-Pot 20-Ounce Lunch Crock Food Warmer. It comes with a removable canister with its own snug lid. On Sundays I make up a gigantic pot of soup, and simply pour over some into the canister and take it to work, where I pop it into the Crock-Pot Food Warmer. By lunch I have a piping, satisfying meal, and I have found that soup is what keeps me full the longest.

 

One can warm up whatever one likes in there.

This past Shabbos there were guests, and as always in such a case there was a groaning fridge that needed to be emptied following their visit. I chopped up some greenery (lettuce, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, snap peas, scallions, etc.) and topped it with sliced sweet chicken and the apricot jam mushroom sauce as dressing.

Here's a simple salad dressing that is the only one really used in my house: vinegar, light olive oil, black pepper, and garlic powder. 

I always feel like I need something refreshingly sweet following a meal, so I scour the stores for in-season fruits. If one looks carefully, now there are some very good Golden Delicious apples (matte exterior, a perfect blend of green-yellow with a blush of red, and very freckled. Those are the best ones).  

Mark Bittman of The Flexitarian is also on a quest to revive the brown bag, metaphorically. Does my audience think I am unaware of the potentially "nerdy" connotations of toting tupperware? Tough. The Frumanista has spoken. 

Via ladygouda.com. Très Chic.

I have managed to concoct for Ta a brown bag system that, I believe, has kept his health on track. More on that in another post. But every other man his age that I know is on some sort of medication; baruch Hashem, he is not. Eating out only rarely has to be a health benefit.  

Vive La Différence

Just to reassure my audience, no, I do not make a point of shadchan-hopping. But when a cousin calls up saying she's sorry, but a "shadchan" wants to meet you, what are you gonna do? 

Her: This guy likes hiking, and camping . . .

Me, faking a pleased: Mmm!

Her: Do you like hiking and camping?

Me: No.

Her, initially troubled face, which clears with dawning comprehension: But you'll go hiking and camping anyway! 

Me, pleasantly smiling: No. 

Her: But—

Me: No.

Look, I'm not exactly a newbie when it comes to relationships; I've been observing my siblings' marriages since I was a tween. For instance, my brother and sister-in-law love skiing. Except they are not the ones that are married to each other. 

Luke lives to ski, and Owen's wife enjoys it. Luke goes off on ski vacations with buddies with Orgiana's blessing, while Owen potters about the lodge with a baby slung over one arm and a sefer in his other hand as his wife hurdles down the slopes. 

He can hike and camp and all that crap—I mean, jazz. All that jazz. Just I will be at home, or in a mall, with a level ground beneath my feet and air-conditioning humming away. I'm fine with that.

  

I don't put on my information, "Seeking man who enjoys shopping sales. Must be willing to sift for hours through discount merchandise."  The same way I know most men prefer to spend their time otherwise, so to with me. Have a little imagination, man. 

He can go camping. When he comes back, there will be a suit waiting to try on. 

Vive la différence, vive la variété.       

Uniforms

This video has been going around: 

While it is lovely to have some good media about our world, what still niggled with me is that how the chassidim interviewed did not express anything differently about how they live as opposed to the observant Jew who is not chassidish. Except for the shtreimel. 

We're all the same! The video should have been about observant Jewry in general, not simply chassidim. Because we are one, and when it comes down to it, our beliefs are one too.  

Shmeck Even . . . Git-er?

As I mentioned in my first perfume post, I have very sensitive sinuses. I can't spray just anything on, or I could be treated to a day-long headache. 

I had received as a gift Carolina Herrera CH, and to my surprise a few months later the rather large bottle was empty. A winner! 

I prefer citrus scents; CH boasts "bergamot, lemon, pomelo, melon, jasmine, orange blossom, rose, cinnamon, praline, cashmere accord, cedarwood, patchouli, sandalwood, suede, amber, musk" notes. A neighbor even grabbed me in shul and pressed her nose into my hair. "Oh, you smell delicious," she enthused. 

To replace it, I ended up with Carolina Herrera CH L'Eau, which pretty much smells the same, I think. In any case, the nose is still happy. 

I was idly flipping through a fashion magazine with quite a few ads for scent samples, and I yanked each tab open and shoved it into my face. "No . . . no . . . no . . . hell, no . . . mmm!" It was Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue, which I had thought was more of a clean scent but actually contained a distinct whiff of citrus. 

The notes are "sicilian citron, bluebell, granny smith apple, jasmine sambac, bamboo, white rose, cedarwood, amber, musk." At Sephora, I liberally sprayed myself with the tester bottle, and was gleeful that my head remained un-achy. It is definitely next on my list. 

Walking Toward the Light

I recently acquired a new friend, and one of the things I love about her is that she is always up for a stroll. When we meet up, we just walk, for hours, and chat. 

The only photo I could find of two women walking in skirts.

While both of us are keeping watch on our waists, there are also all sorts of health benefits to walking, never mind it being practically the lowest-impact form of exercise.

David Hochman's article "Hollywood's New Stars: Pedestrians" describes the L.A. love for automobiles, and how they are gradually learning to leave their cars at home. 

New Yorkers don't understand this, since driving in our clogged city streets is tantamount to suicide. Never mind Manhattan; my idea of hell is to drive into Borough Park on erev yontif. 

My neighbors find me a bit soft in the head for walking to public transportation in the morning. It's a little over ten minutes, not really enough to justify leasing another car. They slow down when they see me striding along, and beg and plead that I get into the car, weeping to see me move from Point A to Point B on foot. 

Hochman references Nilofer Merchant, who is trying, for our health and productivity's sake, to sell the concept of "the walking meeting." 

It seems my puny stroll twice a day does not cut it. But I don't think my office is going to sanction treadmill desks anytime soon.

Years ago I had a meh date, but because suitable locales for sitting and chatting weren't available, we ended up wandering along dark streets. I have to say, simply walking and talking took a potentially painful evening and made it bearable. 

Now to find a pair of date-appropriate footwear that won't blister my heels.    

Biblical Living and Loving Man

Quite some time ago, a fellow by the name of A. J. Jacobs decided, for a book, to spend a year living biblically.

He is Jewish, but not religious; as a "stunt journalist," his original intention when undertaking this project was meant to, obviously, poke fun.  

He went above and beyond what any observant Jew would do; he refused to tell any lies, white or otherwise, which is certainly not what a Jew of today would do if he needs to spare another's feelings (Rabbi Hillel as our back). 

Unlike Norah Vincent (who wrote a book about passing as a man) and Eddie Murphy (who made himself over as a white man in a classic “Saturday Night Live” skit), Jacobs does not take the undercover spy route. Instead he lives out the biblical high life in his usual New York surroundings, among all his wanton, gossiping, blaspheming journalist friends. The result is that he ends up sort of like Kramer on “Seinfeld,” a big weirdo who interrupts the normal patter of urban life. Lots of comic relief ensues. He accepts a hug from a homeless woman on the subway, who then accuses him of harassing her. He contemplates taking his cute nanny as his second wife. He grows a beard of ZZ Top-like proportions.

What is irritating is how he seems to equate Jewish observance to his "interesting" uncle, who after trying everything from drugs, cults, Christianity, and Hinduism eventually settled on a chassidish lifestyle in Yerushalayim. 

The book reviewer, Hanna Rosin, points out that Jacobs is missing out on the true observant experience since he is doing this without a community. He is a solo religious practitioner surrounded by scoffers (including himself).

But in the end, the joke was on Jacobs. Somehow, all those odd, incomprehensible practices led to feelings of kindness and consideration for others. 

. . . toward the end, he deepens. A friend e-mails him a YouTube clip of a newscaster who gets smacked in the head by a stage light and falls over. Jacobs can’t bring himself to “lol” as his friends do. He finds it upsetting. He spends 20 minutes trying to track down the newscaster’s e-mail address so he can ask if she’s all right, while at the same time worrying that he’s become some kind of “overly virtuous sap.”  

Interesting. I can never watch America's Funniest Home Videos since they usually involve some sort of bodily harm. While maintaining seemingly unconnected chukim, his empathy widens. 

After a year of praying every day he becomes by no stretch a believer, but someone who at least accepts “such a thing as sacredness.” Sometimes he can even envision a God who might watch over him and care what happens. As a teenager he convinced himself that even when he was alone in his house, the girls he had a crush on could see him, so he listened to David Bowie and brushed his teeth in a “rakishly nonchalant manner” to prove he was worthy of their attention. This is how he experiences God now.

God as Mean Girl. It’s not exactly biblical, but it’s not nothing. 

It's a start. 

Battle of the Bulge: False Sense of Security

I would say the most insidious words in the English language are: "But I've been so good . . ." 

They are, in essence, a gateway drug. 

"But I was at the gym the whole morning . . ." 

"But I haven't had cake in two days . . ." 

"But what can one little bite do . . . make that two bites . . ." 

Of course we all need some wiggle room when it comes to an eating plan. But there is a difference between rationalization and awareness. 

When "grazing" outside the sell-placed criteria, don't tell yourself "It can't hurt." Tell yourself, "Yes, I am eating this calorie-choked seven-layer. I am conscious of the gleeful fat swirling through my system. I will watch myself very carefully for the next few days to compensate." 

There is a trim man in his 60s in my neighborhood. If he overindulges one day, he spends the next only drinking tea. 

Yeah, that's not me. I'll just spend the following week on green soup instead.