Switching to cheap

I admit to being somewhat of a product snob—at least for certain items. That’s odd in itself because, like most of us our age, I’m the child of Depression-era parents. They knew what it meant to have only enough money to live on with no extras for luxuries, and my mother was the queen of bargains. One day, after an afternoon of shopping, she presented me with the ugliest bathing suit I have ever seen. When I told her I didn’t like it, she exclaimed, “But it was only a dollar!” I believe I actually wore that suit, and if I can find the incriminating photo or two, I’ll post them here. After all, the statute of limitations on dorkiness has expired…hasn’t it?

My father was a mail carrier, moving his way up to foreman and, ultimately, Director of Customer Service of Chicago’s Main Post Office. But during my early years, he schlepped mail. I thought it was cool because he’d bring home the most wonderful candy and trinkets during the Christmas season. One unforgettable gift was a cigarette box. When you wanted to smoke (not that I ever did), you pressed the tail of a bird and he bobbed into the stash of cigarettes and came up with one in his beak. As a kid, I loved it. I’m sure my parents would have rather had cash.

So I've set the stage to say that we didn't have much money when I was growing up. I never felt deprived, and I always had enough clothing and accessories. They just weren't—usually—good brands.

As I reached middle age and was making a decent salary on my own, I gave myself permission to buy better: Marshall Field's, Lord and Taylor, Chico's, and Nordstrom were shopping havens for me. Sometimes I would accompany friends to boutiques and spend more on one item than I had on whole outfits in the past.

As for makeup, I got hooked on Lancome, Shiseido, and other department store brands. Once I discovered Lancome's Definicils mascara, it was the only one I used. I also relied for a long time on the samples I received as a gift with purchase, so I have many lipsticks and eye shadow quads. If I really liked a color and ran out of the sample, I bought the full-price version.

Then, a few years ago, I saw Queen Latifah on a TV ad for Cover Girl. The product was LashExact, a mascara with a brush made of plastic bristles that promised to cover each lash....like Definicils does. I bought it, then other versions of Cover Girl mascara, and I haven't looked back. The same thing happened with lipstick (and it also involved a Queen Latifah commercial). I now have a collection of Cover Girl lipsticks and glosses. And they're much cheaper than department store brands! One problem I discovered is that, because they cost so comparatively little, I think nothing of buying more than I need. Who needs four tubes of mascara and eight lip glosses?

When it came to clothing, I would dismiss stores like Kohl's and Target. If I wanted bargains, I'd go for more mainstream brands at Marshall's and TJ Maxx and Nordstrom Rack. Those stores are still in play, but I've become a Kohl's convert. I love the fact that practically everything is on sale all the time. And I know now that some very good brands (Dana Buchman, Chaps, Nine West, Vera Wang, to name a few) have lines they design just for Kohl's.

You might say that being semi-retired has something to do with it. But I'm also genuinely happy with the items I buy at the lower cost shops. I haven't abandoned my taste for Jones New York or Chicos—as long as what I want is on sale—but I've renounced my old snobbish thoughts. As always, the only test the product I buy has to pass is this one: Does this item make me look old? If it does, I'm not buying it, even if it's “only a dollar”—or the 21st century equivalent.

No fathers, just memories

Father’s Day is approaching, but—sadly—there are no more fathers around for us to shower with shirts that don't fit, ties they don’t need, and, in one unpleasant instance, a fancy-schmancy showerhead that my father looked at and handed right back to me. This didn’t cause me psychological damage. I understood that my father knew what he liked and didn’t like, and this time I got it wrong. Almost every other time he told me I gave him the best presents, and with his penchant for honesty, I knew he meant it.

There’s the father of my kids, whom I’m no longer married to but wish well. He’ll be amply gifted by our daughters. My husband doesn’t have kids and he came into my daughters’ lives way too late for them to think of him as other than their mother’s husband—although they treat him with kindness.

So, this week there are no cards to buy, no masculine—frivolous—gadgets to look for. But I can reflect.

My father died in 1997 at the age of 80. By that time, we could no longer communicate because Parkinson’s had affected his mind. We couldn’t tell if he understood anything we were saying. One of the last memories I have, before the one-day hospice stay he endured—was a small birthday party at his nursing home. He attempted to eat the cake, although Parkinson’s had attacked his ability to swallow properly too, but I’m not sure he knew what we were celebrating.

After my mother died in 2005, we cleared out their condo and got rid of bagsful of stuff—Depression-era parents saved nearly everything—but I held onto the items that either brought back memories or I thought I might need. Today, I still have what I refer to as “the shrine.” In a small section of my closet are papers, trinkets, photos, death notices—you never know when you might need another one—and other things I swear I’m going to go through and purge one day.

Besides the shrine, there are Rubbermaid boxes of stuff that we finally are going through (probably to make space for our own junk). Among other papers in one of the boxes is a stack of my father’s poems. He wrote most of them in the late 40s and early 50s, and whenever I come across them I see different parts of this often quiet man’s inner being. Here’s a short one that made me smile and that I recognized as truly him:

            

           Movies

I doff my hat to the clever wit

Who worked and worried, bit by bit,

Till he evolved, to our surprise

That wondrous gift to please our eyes:

Pictures that move.

And, on the subject, it’s only fair

To mention the others who did their share,
I bow low to the engineers
Who brought this boon to our happy ears:

Pictures that talk.

With all these gifts at their command,

You can readily understand

Why I’d like to dump in the lake

All the guys who continually make

Pictures that smell.

There are others, including a much longer, serious one about the disappointment GIs faced when coming home to live the American dream from World War II, written in August 1948. I’ll publish that one in the future.

Until then, I wish fathers everywhere a happy day and hope that you cherish your family and that they let you know they feel the same.

From Tweety to tweeting

My favorite cartoon character of all time is Tweety Bird. He’s just so….adorable. As a child and again when my children were little, I followed him in all his successful attempts to outsmart his archenemy Sylvester the Cat. (Their names suggest that, whatever our age, we're too dense to be able to determine what kind of creatures they are.)

There’s been a whiplash change in society and media since I was captivated by “I taught I taw a puddy tat”—OK, it can’t be considered “whiplash” if it happened over a 40-year period. But it seems like only yesterday.

Today, I’m a sort of tweeter myself. I still don’t fully understand tweeting. I just do it. And I do it professionally. By that I mean that my boss has asked me to create the tweets for our department. My company now has a presence on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. I’m thrilled that he asked the oldest person in the department to handle this generally Gen Y task. But I admit that the person who set me up and showed me how to do it is in her early 20s, and patient.

I found out that tweeting is fun! Well, it’s fun for me because I like to put words together. And the challenge of Twitter is that each tweet can have only 140 characters—spaces and punctuation included. Fortunately, there’s a built-in application that shortens web links so those don’t take up the whole 140.

Another challenge is to choose the right words—in my case the ones that are more likely to interest someone in registering for a course or conference.

What I don’t quite understand about tweeting is, Where do those tweets go? Who sees them? Are these people actively looking for the tweets? I could go on, but I’m slowly seeing some answers to these questions. Our tweets show up on our LinkedIn and Facebook pages…I think. But if someone were not looking at those pages, how do they find the tweets? How do we reach the audience we’re looking to attract?

I don’t spend much time on finding answers. I just tweet. Here are three examples:

Be among the first to know about new courses, conferences,

schedule updates. Subscribe to Education eNews: http://bit.ly/lsGtz7

Solving your customers' #steam system issues won't be as challenging

after this 2-day course in June: http://bit.ly/lMGyqi

Set your sights on being the best gas distribution engineer you can be.

Come to class and get well-trained: http://bit.ly/jfsar9

The hatch mark (#) is placed before a word that you might want search engines to pick up on. When I use them, I'm never sure I'm putting it in front of the word someone will actually use for a search.

Now that I know how to do this, you'd think I'd start working on tweeting personally. But I can't think of a single reason to do so. Who would read them? How would they find them? What would anyone want to know that I could say in 140 characters? More questions with no immediate answers. But if I wait a while, they may come to me. Of course, suggestions are most welcome.

Selective memory

Why is it that I can't remember a lot of details about the past, but utter trivia will come back to me clearly?

For example, when I'm in the gym locker room getting ready to work out, as soon as I start to put on my sneakers and socks, a scene from "All in the Family" plays in my head.

Archie and Meathead are in Archie's living room arguing about whether it makes more sense to put on both socks, then both shoes, or to put on a sock and a shoe followed by the other sock and shoe. I think Meathead's opinion was that it's better to put both socks on first. If the house is suddenly on fire, wouldn't it be easier to run out if one has on a complete pair of something?

I think of this every time I put on those shoes.

Just don't ask me anything of importance.

Black and blue and red all over

I am my own worst enemy. I blame it on advancing age, although I admit I was always a little clumsy. There are days that, to look at me, you’d think someone was being abusive. That someone is me.

I bump into things, as I always have. Maybe it’s a little worse now because my balance is not what it used to be.

I can live with the black-and-blue bruises I get when I hit my shin on the shopping cart bar (especially those smaller black carts that are an option at Dominick’s; they have that extra horizontal bar at the bottom and I keep moving forward while the cart stands still…). I have no need to be embarrassed about the discoloration on my knee that arose from slamming the car door before my body got out of way. I don’t have to explain the bruise on my shoulder after I’ve misjudged the amount of space between me and the wall. After all, it’s not yet summer, and long pants and three-quarter sleeves keep my secrets.

But the red marks on my face and hands are another story. Here’s a summary of three recent stupid accidents:

1. I had just had my hair cut, and rather than have the stylist blow it dry (an added expense), I sat under the three-bulb heat lamp, scrunching clumps of hair into curls that the warmth of the lamps locks into place. Never satisfied with sitting a safe distance away from these red-hot globes, I like to slyly bend one of them a little closer to my hair, hoping to shave a little time off the process. Then, forgetting about that indiscretion, I started scrunching again, burning my hand in the process. Now I had an obnoxious red mark on my upper hand that got redder while it healed.

2. Just after waking up one morning, I hit the Snooze button and then settled back down on my pillow. But, as often happens, my curly hair was on my cheek, and I wanted to push it back. I casually swept the curls off my face, failing to realize that one of my fingernails was jagged. Within seconds I felt a stinging on my cheek and a wetness when my hand felt it. Could it be blood? It was, and the result of my finger swipe was a one-inch horizontal gash—not so deep I needed to have it taken care of, but ugly enough that I’ve had to use concealer on it as it heals.

This could have been prevented. It’s not that I don’t’ know that my nails are so weak that a tap on a piece of fabric can tear them. I should have filed it before I went to bed. But who could have guessed I was a menace to my face?

3. Back to heat-as-evil, I was innocently defining curls with my curling iron and I decided to counteract the letter C that my short bangs were forming (a pet peeve). To straighten them a little, I used the iron and pulled the hair in the opposite direction. And burned my forehead. It’s just a little red burn on the upper left, but it adds a nice balance to the red gash on my lower right.

(I've noticed a common thread here: hair. Can't live with it; don't want to live without it.)

My only consolation is that I’m not a menace to others. That is, unless I forget to trim my toenails this evening. I’d better warn my spouse.

Looks are deceiving—here’s how I deceive

*

Caution: Don’t read this if you’re bored by someone blathering on about her beauty routines, shopping rules, and age-defying practices. It’s self-indulgent, but aren’t most blogs?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I know I don't look my age. I'm not gloating about it, but I enjoy hearing gasps when the real number of birthdays I've celebrated is announced. And I'm sure I'll stop announcing it as soon as the gasp turns into a casual “Uh huh.”

I credit the genes from my mother's side, but I also put a little work into it—sometimes a lot of work. People often ask for my "secret," as if I’m keeping the formula for the magic potion in my safety deposit box. I don't even have a safety deposit box. And if I did, I probably wouldn't remember where I hid the key...but I'm getting off-track.

There are no secrets, only my own set of guidelines for staying youthful—an ever-growing set. For those who have asked, here are my own stay-young, anti-frumpy rules, separated into neat categories, like a textbook. (Remember those? We used them in school a long, long time ago.)

Chapter 1: Clothing
I’ve cleansed my closet of anything I consider old-looking. When I shop, I try to keep “youthful-but-not-trying-too-hard” in mind. Here are some of my rules:

• Nothing that’s too boxy or shapeless

• Nothing with little (or big) colorful appliqués or embroidered kitschy icons—even if it’s the week before Halloween or July 4. No birds, trees, butterflies, snowflakes…unless they are artfully worked into the pattern—and a 40-year-old would wear it.

• Flattering necklines. In my case, it’s usually a V-neck, preferably one that’s not too low—60-something cleavage is often better left under cover.

• Summer pants that don’t end right in the middle of the calf. For years, I wore capris that hit me right there (that’s the old maxi length in skirts), and when I looked in the full-length mirror, I kept changing shoes thinking they were the reason I felt frumpy. Now I know that the mid-calf length is not flattering at all on me, and I go for just below the knee (when I can find them) or longer ankle pants.

• No mid-length shapeless jackets. They should have a belt or some sort of nipped-in waist, even if your waist doesn’t want to nip.

I’ve adopted the look that has my tank or shirt falling below the hem of my jacket. This used to be considered slovenly on all but the very young (and maybe strung out), but it’s now hip and stylish. That means that shorter jackets are good—as long as they don’t hit you in a place that makes your wide hips the focal point (or maybe that’s just me).

Chapter 2: Shoes
Ahh, if I could only wear really hip and youthful shoes…No pointy toes or high heels for me. So I have to be careful in choosing footwear to stay away from old-looking styles. I can wear flats and a little bit of a heel, but I try to buy flats that are cut low (high?), so more of my foot shows.

In the summer, I have a similar problem. There are cool, hip sandals out there, but most of them are flip-flop styles (or what we used to call “thongs,” a term now used to describe underpants that I can only refer to as “painful”—not that I’ve ever tried any).

Chapter 3: Accessories
When it comes to accessories, I pay attention to the trends. Not the ones usually shown in the junior department, but the styles seen in catalogs and magazines—that is, the ones that are age-appropriate, like More and O!—and those shown on TV shows like Today and, of course, What Not to Wear. I adapt the ones that work for me.

For example, chunky, bold jewelry is in, so I buy (or dig out from the past) costume jewelry to add something conspicuous, like a wide bangle bracelet or a necklace of varying size circles that can be doubled. Pieces like these make people notice—hopefully in a good way.

I never leave the house without earrings. “Never” doesn’t include going to have oral surgery or to my hair appointment. If I forget and wear them to the salon, I have to remove them, put them in my purse, then consider them lost until I discover them again several days later—at best.

I choose earrings long enough so that they show, at least a little, below my hair. I admit to having way too many pairs of earrings and, even worse, way too many single ones. I know their mates are probably never coming home, but still…I hang on to them just in case. Despite this wealth of ear jewelry, I am partial to the same few pairs most of the time.

Very trendy now are those long, soft scarves that you can wrap artfully around your neck, European-style. If you didn’t pass Scarves 101, try http://www.scarves.net/how-to-tie-a-scarf/. I plan to do that as soon as I buy a new scarf.

Chapter 4: Hair
Color
My natural hair color is very dark brown. (I’m talking about the good ol’ days. I have no idea what my hair would look like naturally now, except for some mousy gray roots that pop up along my part and around my hairline.) Gray—the salt-and-pepper variety—and white hair can be lovely. But the combination of the drab color I see coming in and my light skin tone made me decide to start coloring my hair. My “secret,” which is widely published, is to go lighter, not darker and not the same dark tone you grew up with. I also have even lighter highlights, and I get lots of compliments on my hair from friends and strangers, so it must be a good look for me.

Style
I’m lucky to have a wonderful stylist—the same one for over 20 years. She’s the age of my older daughter (she was originally my daughter’s stylist), and she’s become a good friend (although one I see only every five weeks). She is dedicated to keeping me youthful, and she cuts my hair with a little “edge” to it. The back is shorter than the sides. Why that’s edgy and youthful, I’m not sure, but it works. I'm also open to changes. I accept my curls and enhance them with a curling iron, but I have a collection of flat irons—used occasionally when I get bored with my routine.

Chapter 5: Teeth
I admit to failing to follow my own advice here, but there are extenuating circumstances.

First and foremost, if at all possible, whiten your teeth. Yellow teeth give away age as fast as wrinkles and jowls. I did this once, through my dentist, but now there are good OTC whiteners that work pretty well for far less cost. My problem now is that my top teeth have bonding, and whiteners don’t whiten them. My dentist tells me there are new, lighter bonding materials available, so when I finish paying for an upcoming new dental implant and costly bridge, I’ll consider going that route. After all, who needs to eat and pay the mortgage? But all those of you who can use the whiteners—do it!

Chapter 6: Skin Care and Makeup
I inherited my mother's skin, and for that I'm grateful. Never mind that she always had dry skin and I always fought off those ugly breakouts and excess oil. She and I were blessed with slow-to-wrinke faces.

But there's another secret that I learned later in life. See the good things that others see in you, and it will reflect in your face and attitude. When I first saw my current dermatologist, she said "You have beautiful skin." I was surprised, even though I'd heard that from other people. When I looked in the mirror, all I saw were the large pores on my chin and a mapping of broken capillaries forming an ugly frame for my nose. We addressed those issues (mostly with pricey creams, which the office sells...), and even though I can still see evidence of these things I used to find unworthy, I now believe the derm and others and feel very good about my skin. Many times I go without foundation, just a little mineral powder (after, of course, all those layers, like sunscreen, moisturizer, sometimes beauty serum). I wear foundation at times, but I make sure it's a formula that doesn't go on heavy (very aging) and I go over it lightly with a sponge to make sure it blends in. If you're not too exhausted to add yet another layer, a primer does a nice job of helping foundation look smooth.

And on the topic of anti-aging skin, 30 SPF sunscreen is the most important layer to put on if you're going to be outside at all. Naturally, I have a great product I bought at the dermatology office.

Do wear eyeliner, shadow, and mascara if you're so inclinded (and it's good to be so inclined as to not look washed out; color—everywhere—fades as we age). Just don't go heavy on any of them. I've also been using an OTC eyelash growth product. I have yet to see an improvement on my thinning lashes, but maybe they would be falling out faster if I didn't use it.

Beauty is expensive, as is age-definace. But you already knew that.

Chapter 7: Behavior
We all know that the younger generations consider their elders stubborn and unwilling to learn something new. It’s a gross generalization, but don’t you know a few people who fit that description? I am fortunate to work at a job that has me continuously learning new software and web applications. But if I didn’t, I would still want to use as much of new (or not so new) media as possible so that I don’t fall behind and—horrors—be considered an alta cocker (or, in English, an old fart).

It’s not just learning something new that’s important. It’s the flexibility to change your way of thinking about something or dropping an old habit. Or to try new things.

Now, I admit to sometimes settling into the stereotype of older people who beg off of activities they used to do. I now prefer to dine in the suburbs rather than face city traffic (even if I’m the passenger—which is usually the case). I recently turned down a night out at a pub (for charity no less) because it started at 9:00 p.m. Leave the house at 9? And isn’t there something good on TV at that time? (Yes. 48 Hours Mystery. Can’t get enough of those stories about husbands killing wives, and vice-versa…)

 

But you have to stop yourself from automatically saying no to something a little bit out of your comfort zone. Try to squash those knee-jerk thoughts, like "Are there clean bathrooms there?"


There you have it. Follow these rules at your own risk. Or create your own rules and be beautiful and youthful in your unique way. And because I abide by my own rule about being open and flexible, if you find a new miracle product, please let me know.

Boggle rehab?

I have finally overcome my addiction to playing Boggle on the iPad. It was so simple, and right at my fingertips all along. Who knew?

I’m proud to announce that my miracle cure is…Word Solitaire! Since I started playing Word Solitaire night and day, I rarely open Boggle—let alone play it for an hour. Word Solitaire uses letters instead of cards, and you build words by stacking letters, sometimes drawing from the stash at the bottom and often using jokers to substitute for any letter. It’s fun, it’s challenging, and, I’m afraid, addictive.

If it weren't bad enough that I've discovered an even better time-waster, I got my spouse hooked on it too. But he wasn't challenged enough by the free version of the game, so he upgraded to a level that gives me a headache just thinking about it. For example, the other day he was whining because he was dealt a Q without a U. The freebie version doesn't even have Qs.

You may be shaking your head and wondering what's to become of someone who is willing to give up hours of the precious time she has left on this earth to poking her finger on a screen. I look at it this way: a) I'm helping myself ward off dementia (fingers crossed); b) I spend less time shopping; and c) I'm really playing with words as a warm-up for actual writing, both on the job and at home. In fact, maybe I will buy the 99 cents version of Word Solitaire and deduct it from my 2011 income tax as a work expense.

Now that I've spent enough time actually writing, I'd better get back to the game...