Friday, February 24, 2012

The bloody truth.

Back in the 70’s, all us girls had a friend named Heather.
It’s a fact.

Most were pretty and blonde, right?
Mine was.

Heather Marzek was my childhood Heather.
Here are some memories I have of her:

• She got cast in the school play as Peter Pan. We were just like Broadway at Brookside Elementary, casting a girl as Peter Pan. Yep, Mary Martin, Sandy Duncan, and Heather Marzek. I played Nana, the family dog.

• Her family tricked me into eating deer when they invited me over for dinner one night. They told me it was beef. I thought it was weird and questioned it, but didn’t want to come off as rude. After dinner her family reveled in telling me it was venison. I was supposed to have a sleepover that night. I called my mom and made her come pick me up.

• I learned about shaving my legs at Heather Marzek’s house.

Pink nightmare.
I was spending the night at her house - not the Bambi night, a different night - we had been playing softball and her mom asked us to take a baths. I was soaking in bubbles when I spotted a pretty burst of pink plastic on the corner of the tub. I grabbed it and held it, and admired it.

“It’s my sister’s” Heather barked - she had a raspy/whisky voice for a little kid. Like Demi Moore or Kathleen Turner. In retrospect that voice should not have come out of that little girl.

I mimed shaving my legs and my armpits, I felt very glamorous and grown up.

“Have you ever shaved your legs?” she asked.

Heather was fair as fair can be. She was the kind of girl who had hair on her legs but never had to shave, it was acceptable because it was all light and peach-fuzzy. I, on the other hand, was Italian and much more furry than fuzzy. I knew I should probably look into this hair removal deal sometime soon before my leg hair got to braiding length.

“Yes”, I lied, “I’ve shaved.”

Heather looked down at my legs and gave me a confused look.
“Well, it looks like it’s about time to shave them again, your legs look like my brother’s legs.”

I was embarrassed. I squeezed a gigantic blob of shiny Mister Bubble bubble bath onto my calf and tried to get up the gumption to look cool doing something that I had never done before. No one had taught me how to hard could it be?

Heather pretended not to watch me while combing her beautiful blonde feathered bob in the mirror.

I pressed down hard on my skin, really hard, with the pink razor. I started at the base of my ankle and pulled up really fast. Then I let out a blood curdling scream.

My leg was a torn up, bloody mess. The Mister Bubble was stinging like alcohol poured into an open wound. The tub water was beginning to look like the scene at the end of Fatal Attraction. This was not good. I hobbled out of the tub. This was not the relaxing pre-dinner/sleepover soak I had hoped it to be.

I had seen my father stick toilet paper to his face a million times when he cut himself shaving, so we wrapped my wet leg in Charmin. We both agreed that we would both get in trouble if we let on to Heather’s parents that we had experimented with her sister Tammy’s razor. We were too young to shave but old enough to know better. So we had to come up with a lie.

When we came downstairs Heather’s mother gasped, “Lori! What happened to your leg???”

Heather jumped in immediately, “Lori was taking a bath, and Tammy’s razor fell in, and it cut her leg up…BAD.”

Because that could totally happen. A razor could get in your bathtub and attack you.

“I told Tammy not to leave that razor in the tub, that this could happen, that her razor could fall in and really hurt somebody. I’ll have a talk with her when she gets home.”

Poor Tammy. She was probably going to get punished for doing nothing wrong. But it was Heather that threw her under the bus, not me. All I remember was that we didn’t get in trouble and that I got an extra scoop of ice cream on my pie with desert that night.

All was well in the world - until I had to pull that toilet paper off.

I still think of Heather’s house and her bathtub, whenever I nick myself shaving and see a little blood.

I also still think of Heather’s house whenever see a deer, hear people talk about going hunting, see a mounted deer head on a wall, see venison on a restaurant menu, see a dead deer on top of a car or hear somebody say the phrase, "oh dear."

Heather and I were altar servers at St. Theresa's together.
Dear Lord, hear our prayer.

Friday, February 17, 2012

You sexy mother pucker.

A few years back lip plumping glosses were all the rage, with scary product names like Lip Inflation, Lip Injection and Lip Venom. Yikes! Everyone wanted to look like Angelina with a full, pretty sexy pout.

I want to look like Angelina too – but I don’t want to turn that corner, go the wrong way and look like I am on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

This week I had a Valentine’s Day lunch with two girlfriends who love to share good product with me. In honor of all thinks pink, girly and sassy, during lunch they presented me with Soap and Glory’s Sexy Mother Pucker Lip Plumping Gloss.

Now I have tried these types of glosses in the past with various results. Some made my lips a bit more pouty, some did nothing at all, and some made my lips feel like they were about to burn up and fall off of my face – I didn’t care for those ones so much.

When applied, this sexy mutha plumpa has just the right amount of buzz and tingle – there is smoke, but no fire.

Pink. Pretty. Pouty. Plumpy.

The packaging is all pink and sweet and retro, with a 50’s glamour puss on the box, stating, “Fasten Your Seatbelts! It’s SEXY!”


My flavor of choice? Candy Gloss.
I think I have found my new stage name.

My girlfriends and I each put it on right before our California rolls and tempura were set in front of our faces. The conversation went a little something like this:

Amy: “Oh my God, do you guys feel that yet?”

Tracie: “No, nothing.”

Me: “Nothing, I think with all of the product I have slapped on my lips over the years they are immune.”

Amy: “Are you kidding me? My lips are like vibrating, they are tingling like crazy.”

Tracie: “Oh...wait...WAIT. There it is.”

(I reached for the tube and put on another coat)

Me: “Woooooahhhh…I like it. How do my lips look?”

Amy and Tracie: “Shiny! Pretty! Pouty!”

I ate my rolls really fast so I could put another coat on stat.

Then when I got back to the office and an hour went by I was craving more.
What do they put in this stuff?

I guess this is my new drug of choice. I am an addict. A plump-a-holic. When it comes to this Sexy Mother Pucker, I have to just say yes.

Lips like sugar...sugar kissing!

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Frankie say relax.

We all have a first love.

Mine moved really fast, loved to party, was chocolate brown and huge.

My 1978 Chevy Camaro was, and still is, my favorite car EVER.

For my sixteenth birthday, when my parents asked what I wanted I told them what every girl turning sixteen told their parents. A car. Not just any car, I wanted a light pink convertible Volkswagen Rabbit.

Not too picky, right?

So the morning of my birthday rolls around, it was a school day and I was wondering/hoping/praying that my birthday wish would come true. My dad was getting ready for work, putting on his suit, drinking his coffee - when he saw me in the hallway he gave me a wink and a nod along with my happy birthday hug - like something really big was about to happen.

I excitedly and quickly got ready for school, blasting my Prince cassette tape in the bathroom as I made my hair extra huge for my big important day. Oh my God, I thought, they really did it, they got me a car! I put on extra eyeliner so my eyes would really pop for the pictures my mom was about to take of me opening the garage door.

I came flying downstairs and both my parents were in the kitchen waiting for me, which led out to the garage. They were both smiling, my dad more than my mom, he still had that crazed look in his eye like something huge was about to take place.

“Ok Lori, let’s go, this is it, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” He said as he led me toward the garage door with his had cupped over my eyes.

The door opened and I was confused. “There’s nothing there,” I said. “What do you mean?” my dad asked, “Look, it’s your brand new car!”

In the middle of the garage was a tiny Matchbox car.

It was, indeed, a Volkswagen Rabbit, which at one time had been white. One of them (I’m guessing my dad, it was a sloppy job) had painted the car with light pink nail polish. It even had a bow on it, which was bigger than the car itself.

Needless to say while Dad fell over laughing, I was not amused.

I went to school, my hopes of a new car dashed. But my hair and makeup looked really good.

They even gave me flowers in a car-shaped-vase.

A few weeks later I came home from school to see a big, brown bomber of a car parked in the driveway of our house. My mind raced trying to guess what hot burn out dude wearing a half-shirt had come over to call on me.

Mom and Dad came out front when they saw me coming – this was my new car – my new baby.

The car was a monster. There was no power anything, you had to crank the windows open and shut. You also had to crank open the friggin’ MOON ROOF that my best friends Susanne and Jocelyn and I used to its full advantage. We would hoot and holler at cute boys while cruising the strip at Clearwater Beach.

My ’78 Camaro’s name immediately became Frankie – after Tim Curry’s Dr. Frank N. Furter in the cult classic The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Was I the only sixteen year old girl with a gigantic tank bomber car named after a sweet transvestite? There had to have been others, right?

When friends came over and I’d ask, “Who’s car we taking?” the answer was always, “Let’s take Frankie!” My parents would holler at me to move Frankie so they could pull their car out. It was a given that when I got older and my brother Mike was old enough, Frankie would be passed on to him.

But alas, Frankie passed on before he could get passed on.

I was driving my brother Mike, his friend Ronnie, and my girlfriend Jocelyn home from Mike’s football practice. It was raining hard and the road was slippery. All I remember was a car in front of me and slamming on the brakes. We hydroplaned ad caused a thirteen car accident.

The host to many make-out sessions.
The seats folded waaay back.
We were all sore but no one was hurt – thank God. No one, except old Frankie. Totaled, gone. I cried like crazy. I was scared that something so traumatic had happened to all of us, and because I feared my first car was gone forever.

My dad sent Frankie to a repair shop and got him fixed up. Even slapped a new coat of paint on him, bright red. But when he came back - he wasn’t quite the same.

He didn’t run right, he broke down a lot. His brakes were kind of mushy and scary. And that red coat of paint freaked me out, he looked way better to everyone else but not to me. I missed his poop-brown exterior.

Ultimately Frankie went to the auto graveyard in the sky. We got rid of him because he kept conking out and breaking down.

But I dreamed that he lived on.

Maybe he was give to another teenage girl on her sixteenth birthday and became the love of her life.

I hope to God her parents got those mushy brakes fixed.

I honestly could not tell you the make or model of any cars I have had since. Little beaters here and there, to get me from A to B, to and from college, to and from my various crummy jobs.

Today I drive a white, mid-ninety-something Toyota. A Camry I think? I’m not sure.

But I’ll never forget my first, my Frankie. The only car I ever had and probably ever will have that I truly loved.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

One! Singular scentsation.

I was very busy during the early nineties.

I was out at Soundgarden concerts meeting cute boys, getting tattoos while holding hands with cute boys, wearing flannel shirts that belonged to cute boys and spraying on massive amounts of a unisex fragrance because apparently - I wanted to smell like a cute boy.

CK One perfume came out in 1994 and I was all over that stink like stink on a monkey.
A monkey who likes to stink like both a man monkey and a woman monkey.

Kate Moss and her skinny friends, both men and women, were all over billboards, magazines and television in all their black and white glory wearing bras, undies and all smelling the same, like “two bodies, two souls, merged into the heat and passion of ONE.”

This looks fun.
Um, okay. The scent was so heavy and musky, with notes of bergamot, cardamom, pineapple, papaya and green tea. Was I wearing a perfume or was I making a stew? I wasn’t quite sure.

I had it in my head from the very animalistic ads that if I wore this scent, I could somehow attract a man who was also wearing the same scent and we would have this amazing, sexy, skinny, smelly life together.

Nobody at the Soundgarden concert was wearing the same perfume as me.

I gave my barely used bottle of CK One to my brother when I was done with it. Blech.

As much as I love to smell all sweet and sugary like a cookie today I also do love the smell of a good men’s cologne. And I love an exotic, sexy fragrance.

Boyfriend perfume is all the good stuff that CK One had going for it, without turning into that musky black and white stew.

Vanilla, jasmine blossoms, sandalwood and amber notes make this a sensual, spicy scent. It’s like you just borrowed your boyfriends shirt and it has his sexy smell on it. Not that old nineties flannel shirt that he just lifted weights in or worked on the car in, more like a long day at the office double martini after work shirt.


When I tried it on I couldn’t stop smelling my wrist. That’s when I know a perfume passes the test. I had to go pick up this guy up.

I love my new boyfriend - he is not only sweet, he has a spicy side too.

Isn't he cute?