grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

mirror mirror

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Things work out just as they should. To paraphrase verses from King James on this Sunday evening before the Lenten Season, the Lord works in mysterious ways.  It’s actually a good thing that my up-close vision is blurry. I don’t really want to see the stray random hairs apparently growing on my upper lip. I don’t see them at all unless I’m in Arkansas in my mother’s bedroom where for some unknown reason she has a magnifying telescope mirror making even brainwaves visible. I avoid that mirror. It’s a crazy fun house mirror exposing future flaws and skin damage not yet visible to the normal naked eye. She loves that mirror. 


When I was at the nail salon a few weeks ago, Na asked, “You want wax?” “No, my eyebrows are fine.” These people are the absolute best at cross-selling. They have no shame whatsoever. If someone peeps inside the salon, but decides the wait looks too long and turns around to leave, the owner will run the customer down in the parking lot, dragging her back inside. “Only one minute you wait! Only one minute! You sit there,” then they all begin to chatter and point at each other, forcing the trapped customer into a huge lazyboy-like spa chair where she will sit in shock for at least another 20 minutes. These nail people make me feel guilty if I don’t spring for the callous cream – an extra buck – like the whole pedicure is a total waste without it.  “Nhแปฏng phแปฅ nแปฏ da trแบฏng cรณ giรก rแบป!” Hmmmm. I don’t need the callous cream. And I don’t need an eyebrow wax. 


Na glanced at my eyebrows which were totally hidden by my bangs anyway, and continued, “What about you mustache? You want wax?” “No! I don’t have a mustache!” Do I? This was all a ploy to make whatever baby-fine, invisible blonde hairs I might have grow thicker and darker forcing me into a mustache waxing routine. I knew that trick. Or maybe I just couldn’t see it – maybe I did have a mustache? I would not start waxing my lip no matter what crop starts growing there. Not unless Kelsey tells me I need to, of course. 

Why on earth would a woman ever marry a younger man? Demi Moore, for instance, is 15 years older than Ashton. Is it an ego boost? forbidden fruit? someone to boss around? to make Bruce Willis jealous? or true love? Regardless, what incredible pressure that must have been for Demi all those years! She must secretively be relieved that relationship is over. She had to know it was only a matter of time. He can clearly see her recently sprouted mustache, she cannot, he’s moving on. Good riddance – he’s grody anyway – I can still see well enough at any distance to know that. Wouldn’t she rather be with someone who was actually alive when she appeared on General Hospital and St. Elmo’s Fire?

According to an article in the journal Demography, a woman who marries a younger man (by at least 7 years) has a 20% greater mortality rate than if she were with a man the same age. It’s all that stress from waxing. Just say NO!

talya

Musical Pairings:

Frankie Avalon, “Beauty School Drop-Out”
John Parr, “St. Elmo’s Fire”

“This mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.” Albus Dumbledore 

Do you think I’m Tex-y?

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In my zone. I was typing away furiously, the words freely flowing – life is good.  Typing is one of my true talents – I am speedy, and I have the high school trophies to show for it – at home in Arkansas, underneath the sink in the bathroom, where the mice play. Tall trophies. I won them at the Cotton Boll Vo-Tech School in Burdette, where Mrs. Byford took all her bright, shiny Future Business Leaders of America students. And unlike today, there was a 1st, 2nd, 3rd place trophy and a whole room of leftover slow typists who went home with nothing but a day off from school. I might never speak French, but I could type. This one girl I knew once said, “I never want to learn to type – Everyone will always ask me to type their papers in college.” What? What kind of sense did that make? Who was going to type her papers? Kids today are born knowing how to type. The typing gene was passed down from those of us who took timed speed tests in the 1970s. 

So as I was on a roll, cracking myself up, a certain mischievous schnauzer plops a raccoon on my air mac hitting just the wrong key and launching me into a whole new level of cyberness. Ugh!!!!!!!!!!! She typed a whole line of jumble. Of course, it wasn’t a real raccoon, although I wouldn’t have batted an eye had it been. Thank goodness for the Undo Button. I threw the raccoon across the room and looked down at my keypad and screen to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. That’s when I really noticed Great Grandma Creecy’s hand searching for the undo button! WHEN did my hand turn into a piece of fried chicken? 


Daddy always said, “Doesn’t matter what you do to the rest of your body, your hands will give you away.” Once again, here he was, speaking from the grave, right as rain. He didn’t say a whole lot but when he did he was usually right. And his message was usually delivered deadpan. There was nothing funny about this. 

Maybe it was the bad lighting in my bedroom this morning? And I probably needed to drink more water – that was my new years resolution this year (and every year). Like most resolutions, I did really well for a few weeks….  I bet I was dehydrated! All that night sweating was shriveling my hands! And my nails were disgusting. My cuticles were jagged and each fingernail was a different shape! Gross. Looked like I had traded in my banking job to pull Johnsongrass full-time. But the most glaring thing was this warty thingy near my wrist. It was sorta like a wart but wasn’t. It was like a hard knotty zit – one that had nothing inside but you kept thinking it might. Handsome-Dr.-Ruben-with-the-perfect-skin said it was nothing, “But I can freeze it off, if it bothers you.” Yeah it bothered me – it stared at me all day long. While I typed. It was stifling me.

So he burned it off, turning it really nasty for a week or so. It blistered up and popped and drained and scabbed and healed. And then lo and behold, it came right back. Staring at me again. A bit smaller but still there! I hit the Undo button, restored my words, put Mac back on the desk and ran downstairs to get rid of this carbuncle myself. 

I got the duct tape. Duct tape fixed everything, right? I cut off a piece and taped it over the heinous thing. Somewhere, somehow, I heard that duct tape cured warts – maybe it suffocated the virus? This wasn’t a wart, but it was wart-like. It might not work, but it couldn’t hurt, right? At least I wouldn’t have to feel it glaring at me. I didn’t have the silvery original duct tape, but I had white. Would the color affect the outcome? 

There aren’t that many things I would undo in my life – one things affects another. If you undo something in junior high, you might not have that fab typing trophy in high school. But I would undo the amount of time I spent baking in the sun which has brought me to this point of wearing a piece of duct tape on my KFC hand. 

Needing a professional, I tossed a couple of dog treats to Annabelle and Lucy so they wouldn’t eat a book, and drove to the nail salon for the works. All my little Vietnamese friends were thrilled to see me – no one else was there at 10:30 am. Everyone had jobs. 

One of my favorite parts of the experience is picking a new toe color. There is an entire wall of polishes arranged in rainbow fashion with like colors grouped together. The color itself is important, yet  secondary – I choose based on the name of the polish. If the color doesn’t have a cool name, I’m not gonna wear it. I can’t walk around for weeks with toes named “Getting Miss Piggy With It” or “I Eat Mainly Lobster”.   This is just like choosing a horse at Oak Lawn. First the name of the horse, then the color. I always bet on a gray house, unless it has an unfortunate name. Bad name. Bad karma. Wasted two bucks.

I only do browns, cherry and blue/greens (polish not horses), but only if the name speaks to me. If the bottom of the polish has lost the label and I can’t identify the name of the color – I pass. I had been wearing Rosey Mistletoe’sies pretty much since Christmas – it was time for a change. After careful consideration, for my toes I selected “Do You Think I’m Tex-y” from the new Texas Collection. It spoke to me. But only for my toes. I keep my fingernails au natural. I’m predictable that way. I like my fried chicken plain. 

I sat in the big spa chair with my feet in the hot water and prepared to relax. I was plugged into my favorite tunes to drown out the odd Vietnamese instrumental renditions of Moon River and Deep Purple that played over and over – with a random Christmas song thrown in. I’d rather listen to my own odd assortment of songs… This was my chance to catch up on Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher’s split. My favorite nail lady, Na, was attending to my feet. A lady I didn’t know (or maybe I just didn’t recognize her?) came over to address my nails. Hmmmm, interesting outfit to say the least. Was she hiding from the law? I should definitely watch America’s Most Wanted just to make sure… Maybe she was from another planet. I do think it’s a possibility. As she studied my nails, I studied her. On this beautiful, warm, 60 degree February day, she was smothered head to toe in strangeness. 

“What this?” she barked, pointing to my hand. Oh, I still had duct tape on my warty thing. I ripped it off – ouch – and dipped my fingertips back into the water. She looked at the thing on my hand, shook her head  as if thinking, “I not believe these white people”. It wasn’t that bad. I wanted to say, “What’s this?” and wave my fried chicken hand the length of her entire ensemble. But of course, I didn’t. I hold these thoughts in, to later spew forth into cyberspace. Sparkly black beanie, beige turtle neck sweater underneath a thick second pink sweater with pink furry collar(!) underneath a white lab coat. And odd yellow reading glasses perched on her pointy nose like an exclamation. She had to be percolating under all those layers! Her face was flushed, especially her nose. I studied her. Oh great! She was sick! Bird flu or something which would be passed to me.


“Are you sick?” I asked. She did not respond. I knew she heard me. She acted like she couldn’t speak English. “ARE. YOU. SICK?” I asked again a bit louder and more slowly in case she couldn’t hear through that beanie on her head. “No. Not sick.” She replied. “Allergy.” Hmmmm, I was skeptical. I should have never asked because suddenly the floodgates opened. “My father in Vietnam have allergy. My nose run and run and run. It horrible. It not stop. I up all night. My nose run.” Oh God.

The allergy lady dipped my hands in paraffin wax and then wrapped my arms to the elbows in towels. I had flashbacks of my recent facial. Typically I pass on the paraffin, but maybe this would help my wart thingy. As soon as my hands were all bound and tied, my nose itched like crazy. Oh great this would drive me nuts! This was ruining the whole relaxing experience. I tried to rub my nose with my huge hand which was now brining in paraffin, but couldn’t adequately maneuver. Allergy lady glared at me over those yellow glasses, looking perturbed. “What you do?”  “My nose is itching – I’m trying to scratch it,” I whine. Without warning, she reached up and swiped my nose with her bird flu hand!!!!! I flinched and accidentally kicked Na who was massaging my feet. This immediately set off an incessant chatter of choppy Vietnamese. You know what I mean – we’ve all heard it before. A customer does something that doesn’t sit right and off they go on a rant. The customers have no idea what’s being said, but we all know it’s about us! Great, I’d done it now. I’d have to find a new nail salon.

After the paraffin wax treatment, my bump thingy was still there of course, but now it was pink and glowing. Still, I felt better. Fresh toes always make a girl feel better.

talya


Musical Pairings:

The Rolling Stones, “Get Off Of My Cloud”
R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”




Getting My Glow On

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No one in my family needed one single thing for Christmas this past holiday. We are lucky and blessed and wanted for nothing. In the spirit of downsizing our “stuff” and constantly attempting to simplify, my husband (who is a most excellent gift-giver) gave me the perfect Christmas present – a gift card for a facial at my favorite spa. Totally consumable!

I like to get facials about twice a year. No matter how much home cleansing, steaming or exfoliating, the results are no where near the same as having a professional properly pamper your pores. I decided to go in for my facial the morning of my anniversary. This would be the ideal time to de-clog, deep-clean and walk away with squeaky younger skin – just like the day I got married. Ok well maybe just like the first time I got married… when I was much, much younger.

I scheduled my appointment online and selected the Brightening Facial. It was described as a fine line-erasing, dark spot-removing, brightening skin booster to “get my gorgeous glow going”. I could certainly use this miracle treatment for my bone dry skin which had spent way too much time baking in the sun in the 1970s. This was pre-sunscreen.

As I relaxed in the dimly lit waiting room in my comfy robe, I sipped green tea and allowed my mind to clear. After only a few minutes, my aesthetician with absolutely perfect peaches-and-cream skin and natural Angelina lips floated into the room. She had long, straight, shiny blonde hair. I gave a passing thought to my dirty hair in desperate need of a wash,cut,style,color,etc…. She seemed very sweet. As we walked to the treatment room, (I walked/she glided) she commented that my hairstyle was cute. Ok, so she was stunning but obviously the elevator didn’t go all the way up. Not only was my hair dirty – I was sporting my yoga hairdo which consisted of 2 dog-ear ponytails (not attractive or appropriate on a 49-and-a-half-year-old but convenient for yoga). This veritable veela had no pores which was an excellent advertisement for her skill.  I too would leave with no pores. (The last facial I had was administered by a girl with an unfortunate case of either rosacea or acne. NotAVeryGoodSign… Although I did not leave with rosacea, I left with the same enlarged pores I arrived with – clean but enlarged.)

I love these treatment rooms. They are so tranquil. I think they must diffuse a calming agent throughout the air vents to make it so peaceful. I wonder if I could book space for a 30 minute nap sometime? Just a nap. I hopped up on the table and buried myself under piles of thick heated blankets. I practiced my deep breathing exercises from yoga class while she stirred up magic potions behind me. There was a relaxing new age type music playing softly in the background. The lights were low. I could smell lavender.  Heaven.

With a gentle hand, my aesthetician began cleansing my face and praised my selection of the brightening facial, adding it would be fabulous for me – “but it might tingle a bit”. No worries. I’ve given birth. Twice.  To big babies.  I have a high tolerance for pain.  It’s all good.

The brightening miracle cream smelled like roses. It was cold and felt nice on my skin. She spread it evenly on my face and down my neck. It did have a slight tingle which meant it was working its magic, right?

Within three minutes time, the slight tingle had turned into a full scale burn on my skin. I was quite certain the poison she was applying to my face would soon ignite. “Ummmm this is really starting to sting,” I told her with a sense of urgency as I squirmed on the bed which suddenly seemed hard. She disregarded my obvious pain, patting my shoulder condescendingly, “Only 2 minutes to go sweetie”. Two minutes and I’ll have 3rd degree burns! She fanned my face which helped a tiny bit and removed the hot steam machine that had continued to blow across my body, fueling the flames. FINALLY, as I began to practice patterned breathing exercises not used since hard labor 18 years ago, she started to remove this vile venom. “Can I have some ice chips or dunk my head in a toilet?” I gasped between breaths. “Hahahaha you are sooooo cute,” she purred. I wanted to slap her but my hands were constrained in warm massage mitts. Were my feet in stirrups?

After lying on this wooden rack with cold towels on my face for several minutes, I felt I might survive, with the exception of my nose which most certainly was bleeding. Did I do something terrible to this woman in another life? “Bless your heart your face is really red. I hope you don’t have anywhere to go.”  She actually sounded concerned. OH HELL NO it’s just my anniversary, I think to myself, unable to form actual words as I am totally concentrating on calming my heartbeat. “You are going to LOVE the results!”  She was just so giddy. “Is my face going to peel?  I didn’t want a peel!  I have a party on Friday!” I panic.  “Oh no honey, you may just have a few flakes…” Ok that really did not compute in my melted brain. Fry = Peel. It just did.  

Surprisingly, after coming down from stroke mode, the remainder of the facial was quite normal. I even fell asleep near the end of the session and awoke myself with one of those startled jerks. Or maybe I had passed out from physical and psychological trauma. As I readied to leave the torture chamber, she reminded me over and over again not to be shocked at how pink my face was, but added “it has calmed down a lot already.” As I walked toward the dressing room I moved slowly as if I had in fact given birth.  My head was swimming – probably from the heat radiating from my body. I was pretty sure I was suffering from hyperthermia. Shouldn’t I be in the recovery room? She asked me if I wanted hot tea.  Hot tea! Really? She was an idiot.

In the dressing room I assessed my face. It was swollen and red. Big time. Every single woman who walked into the changing room did a double-take. One thing was certain – this facial was aptly named. I could guide Santa’s sleigh with this bright face. And just as I had hoped, I had no pores as they were all completely swollen shut. Even the lady at the front desk who had the nerve to collect my gift card payment felt sympathy – it was obvious by her gasp which she tried to stifle but couldn’t. I drove home still feeling uneasy from the heat and certain that I would have a wreck, leaving me standing on the side of Central Expressway explaining my dirty ponytails and cherry kool-aide face to a skeptical police officer. Thankfully I didn’t have far to drive.

I walked in the kitchen door, fighting off my very strong urge to jump in the pool on the way inside. John asked, “Wanna go to lunch for our anniversary?”  “John, I can’t leave the house! My face is as red as a baboon’s ass.”  He tried not to laugh, but he did.  “We’ll pretend you just returned from a ski trip in Aspen,” he suggested. I was very reluctant, but we did have to eat, right?  And it was our anniversary.  So after an icy shower to restore my body temperature and a dusting of pale mineral powder to dull the reflection from my swollen nose, we were off to lunch.  I’m sure everyone in that restaurant was jealous of my healthy glow from the slopes.  

talya

Musical Pairings:
Saving Jane, “Girl Next Door”



Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!