Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder- Especially When You're in Front of the Mirror

Beauty matters. It took mother to remind me of this—she’s 87.  Seems like all the years trying to get her to look at the computer were in vain—it  was her vanity that took her to the mouse in search of a lipstick she had to have—hers was on its last lick.   She sat all afternoon savoring www.beautynewsnyc.com, in my construction-zone of a house while my husband hammered away above us.  She never noticed--him in his short shorts or the pounding.  Mesmerized by pages of beauty tips and news she finally broke the spell and spoke. 

“Beauty matters,” said. 

All of a sudden I wondered if she thought I’d forgotten; in 90 +  degree weather, putting a new roof on ourWoodstock house, I nixed the make-up and hair for a week—my bare ass hadn’t seen the shower either.  “Mom, of course I know it matters.”  She sensed my concern.

“No, I don’t mean you, I mean you psychologists—you know, they think it all comes from inside.  You can’t forget that no one likes the gift that comes in a brown paper bag.” She laughed and added, “We all need a little gift wrap.”

How right she is.  Beauty is not a nasty word; it influences what other’s think of us and what we think of us.  I’m not talking about ravishing beauty, I’m not talking about obsessive beauty—everyone is beautiful; we need to take pleasure in enhancing our appearance  A refined face belies a refined person.  Sure we judge books by their covers; are you supposed to read the damn thing standing at the bookshelf?  Taking care of our outer self is very crucial—one of the first signs of depression is a lack of regard for one’s beauty.  Have you ever left the hair dressers feeling on top of the world?  Sure you have.  My grandmother would practically hop and skip on the sidewalk after—and she left with a purple head.  Did you know the hottest selling female product in recessions is lipsticks and beauty products—why? Oh, how great we feel with a new face.  

There I sat, on wood floors heaved from the rain that in puddles while I was dining in Italy, staring up at  a hole in my roof that now revealed the big dipper, while watching the dollar bills being transformed into plywood, shingles and sheet rock.  I went into the bathroom to see what I could scrap off of my cruddy mosquito bitten body and see what I could scrape up—in the make-up department.  I spied it on the sink.  Mom had left her prized lipstick, nearly dead, but just enough so I could feel like kissing my misery away, with my construction foreman, who wanted to fiddle, but not on the roof.  Thanks mom.  

Italy is for Lovers

Apologies for my absence but I have been getting fodder from my travels.  Yes, I was in Italy exploring the world of sex and love, food and wine and vista's and scenery with my husband David.  ans our college age son, Matthew. All of those I listed are aphrodisiac's in one way or another.  You can't help feeling sexy after devouring plates o mushrooms, stretching mozzarella with your teeth, while sitting on a terrace overlooking a castello. The Italians know this; there are condom vending machines even next to the Vatican. Even in the small Village my family lives in, the condom machine is mounted on a wall in the piazza.  From our window, during the last week of our stay I kept count of all the local lovers, whose twist of the handle caused a ratchet sound which echoed off our walls.  I counted 52 in one night, and that is in a village of 350.  Then there is the wine.    

Italy is wasted on beer drinkers.  Wine is truly the best Viagra. After a bottle I felt sinfully sexy, nixed any idea of plastic surgery.  I began fluffing my hair, batting my mascaraed eyes and speaking with a slight Italian accent to my suave husband, in his fedora and banana hammock- by the private pool at our rental. Actually I bribed him to wear my black jockey microfiber hipsters.  Yes I did and as soon as I can bribe him for the photo evidence it will be posted.  Anyway, David agreed about the wine thing, said it was an airbrush.  I was insulted because he never noticed I shaved my legs and prepped (you know what I mean) for our adventure.  My kid noticed it.  "Look," he exclaimed. "Mom shaved!"

We went with our two best buddies, Cristiana and Laurie and their kids- they noticed our absences a couple times a day.  But Matt shared our room.  Of course it was really hard and we couldn't act on all our impulses with him in the next bed.  By the way, I did mean that pun and if you don't get it re-read the last sentence.  Nevertheless, the car, shower, rolling hills of Tuscany, my aunts bathroom and the swimming pool all provided opportunities. Wine loosens tongues and bras, lubricates the mind and opens up all sorts of fantasy.  We had a ball.  Best of all, the night I found him in the bathroom showering, and slipped in, telling him I was a hooker, from Rome, I blamed on the bottle of Chianti the following morning.

My theory is this: The test of a great relationship is the vacation.  If you can leave the stress of life behind, devour the pleasures of their company, enjoy, your relationship is sound.  We came home soo happy....  Oh, have I told you all the things Italians do with olive oil?

I missed you-  Dr. Dawn Marlena Hopper. ..or Donatella ...my new name.
Tell me about your love holidays- ---