The Great App Quest
Working on a post about finding awesome apps. Also adding a few pages here. Thanks for your patience while I work this out and sweep up the dust!
Red-Light Makeover (as in traffic lights, not the other, much more exciting kind. You're barking up the wrong blog, buddy.)
I have - in various stages of my former life - read and even subscribed to glossy, girly-girl magazines including Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Allure, Vogue and Marie Claire (I'm still anonymous, right?). As you can imagine, I was well-versed in the art of looking my best self: the differences, nuances and proper usage of primer, toner, foundation, powder, concealer, moisturizer, bronzer and so on.
I've really never had the patience to apply all that on myself, but I rarely would leave the house without lipstick, mascara and at least a clear coat of polish on my nails. I mean, I had standards. Not so much anymore.
These days, if I have a moment to page through those types of magazines (usually in a therapist's waiting room), the following thoughts run through my head:
- Do I still even have nail polish? Oh right, I have those globby, sticky bottles that have been under the sink for 3 years or so. And also that atrocity we put on my daughter - bubble gum pink with glitter, sparkles and maybe even confetti. I wonder...
- Great dress. If only I had the life for it.
- My hair could do that if I was brave enough to use my awesome flattening iron - but a trip to the emergency room would follow because without question one of my children would intentionally or unintentionally (depends which kid) scorch themselves. Oh well.
And finally:
- All of this takes too damn long. I need to write up my tried and tested makeup application process for real-life moms like me (bless your hearts). So here it is:
Red-Light Makeover for Whac-A-Mole Moms
***DVD release TBASETUP AND SUPPLIES
IMPORTANT: Check that your shoes match BEFORE you leave home. Everything else can be done en route. Unfortunately, if you are still wearing slippers or your tights are navy and not black - you're on your own. (Fine - stop at Target on the way. Been there; done that.)
- All makeup supplies must remain in your car. Center consoles of minivans work perfectly. If a particular item is running low, fish around under the back seat to locate a replacement.
- Eyelash curlers, eyeliner and multiple layers of makeup...who are you kidding?
- Tweezers, however, are a necessity. Because, trust me, you will never see more strays than in your car's lighted visor mirror. If this doesn't bother you or all you see is perfection...you go, girl! However, since my haircuts and eyebrow waxing are on an emergency-basis only, some slight maintenance the other 6-12 months is advised.
- Multipurpose makeup sticks are your best friend. Find a brand you like, find a color you love (me - NARS the Multiple in Malibu)
and don't look back. This one is worth the splurge.
- I love "smart shade" type foundations.
You know, the ones that supposedly change color on your face. They barely do anything, but that means fewer, unacceptable makeup lines. If you're splattering foundation on while driving, you'll definitely want something with minimal attention required. Restock those baby wipes in the car to clean your hands off - before and after application, please. I don't want your face cream on me when we shake hands, thank you very much.
- Summer can be tricky because sandals require well-groomed toes. Select closed-toe shoes to skip this step. Peep-toe shoes also work because you just need to polish 1 to 2 1/2 toenails on each foot; why waste time on the others? Nail polish pens rock the car makeover!
- Do NOT do any of this while your car is actually in motion - no matter how late you are. Be smart. You will look a lot less pretty if you crash. It will be horrifying, stupid and really, really embarrassing. But feel free to take the long way - and definitely avoid highways (no traffic lights).
- Multitasking is great, but you still need to keep an eye on the light and other cars. Do not overdo it by texting, drinking hot coffee or talking to your boss while applying your makeup at stops. I mean, we all know it can be done, but it can't be good.
- Don't let your child see you do any of this or you will deeply regret it when they are learning to drive and follow your example (and call you on your bad behavior when you yell at them to stop).
- Disclaimer: I can't help much with your hair. I know I've left the house more than once without looking in the mirror. A supply of hair elastics in the car is critical! (True story - once I actually flat-ironed my hair in the car before a work event...using my minivan's handy, AC inverter. NO, NOT WHILE DRIVING, YOU NUT! Seriously, where would you even get such an idea?)
STEP-BY-STEP INSTRUCTIONS
- Prioritize. Where are you going and how much time do you have? How many lights are there? Is the parking lot at your destination private enough to finish the job? If you're meeting a client, don't let them see you applying mascara in the parking lot...it's just tacky. Au naturale is better.
- First light: Base. Start with the smart-shade foundation or a light powder - nothing clumpy. Important step for me because lack of sleep since 2001 has resulted in perma-splotchy skin and under-eye circles. Yuck.
- Next light: Lipstick. This one's important. Shade should be light enough that it won't stain and is easy to apply. I recently read about some new, clear lip-liners on the market. Brilliant. Must remember to grab one next time I'm at the pharmacy (always).
- Next light: Mascara. You know what to do - but you only get one try and one coat. That's all the time you have! (You might also have to tweeze now, if you're like me and noticed some annoying rebellious eyebrow hairs).
- Next light: Check your work including your teeth to be sure your lipstick didn't end up there. Remember to check hair for stray cereal flakes (in a crunch, that moisturizing cream that you bought a year ago but never brought in the house can double as hair gloss).
And you're done. You look mah-velous. Or at least good enough for that IEP meeting.
What have YOU done on the road that you never before imagined you would? Looking forward to funny stories and more tips from my fellow red-light beauties. Please enter them below!
I Think I've Been Shot
"Mom, I think I've been shot."
I'm dashing around, trying to complete one of many tasks that will, inevitably, remain incomplete. I dejectedly turn my attention from the half-loaded dishwasher, the disinfectant wipes I tore upon hoping to at least wipe down the table, the online banking site open on my laptop, and a wistful eye on Laundry Mountain.
A deep sigh (it's mine).
"I promise you, you weren't shot," I say flatly.
While you might think I should sound more concerned, please understand that while my home is a disastrous place for many other reasons, the odds of being shot in our quiet, suburban neighborhood are really quite low. Occasionally we will hear abrupt, loud bangs, but they are - without exception - industrious neighbors hammering picket fences, a recycling truck or someone installing underground sprinklers.
My son continues, deeply concerned. "Mom, I need immediate treatment. Come quick." He holds up the body part in question so I can examine it. It's his pointer finger...on which I see absolutely nothing unusual. Upon closer inspection, I suspect he's complaining of a hangnail or a paper cut. I have no idea. But more than a bandage, he needs reassurance that he has not, indeed, been shot.
This started a couple of years ago. He's always been a clingy, anxious kid, and he began taking Prozac long before I care to admit. The medications are what allow us to actually leave the house, though. For as long as I remember, he was scared of birthday parties, costumed characters, darkness, certain songs, certain movie scenes. Colic has nothing on the crying spells we endured when he was a baby. Sometimes I could identify the fear-inducing agent; other times I had no clue. Separation anxiety also entered the mix.
Unfortunately, this particular phobia has proven stubborn and persistent. Sadly, I think he will be fighting this one for the long-term.
At 10, he is a smart, creative, affectionate and heartful child. People are constantly telling me that he is special (special like sweet and sincere...not like in the euphemistic sense), that he touches their heart. He really is good down the soul. Unfortunately, that purity and kindness coexists with deeply rooted anxiety and fear. His intelligence counter-intuitively exacerbates the symptoms, fueling his imagination, and proving to be tragically debilitating.
When it comes to the WORRIES, we are at first patient, sympathetic, supportive. We consult with psychologists, specialists and cognitive behavioral therapists, trying a variety of methods and antidotes: worry time; absurdities; talk therapy; role playing; journals; ignoring; exposure; catchphrases; rules; lockboxes. We send the WORRIES packing. We feed them to the fishes. We read books about tomatoes, worry hills and buckets (he has now hidden the books and refuses to read even one more).
We are proud of him for his perseverance in overcoming his anxiety enough to keep going. He triumphantly reports that the good parts of the day outnumbered the WORRY parts. We're relieved and slightly concerned that our son insists and achieves in keeping his fears private, although we question what classmates think when he randomly groans, dramatically clutches his throat and checks his own pulse during math.
His hypochondria begins with himself and extends to those he loves. To him, a shaving cut indicates an infected limb that must be amputated or I will die. If his father is running a few minutes behind, his "go-to" reaction is that his father must be the victim of a fatal car accident, not simply traffic. He touches the dog's nose to see if it feels colder or hotter than yesterday. His sister is not breathing rhythmically enough in her sleep. A little rain indicates the onset of another Hurricane Katrina.
We have a few possible explanations for what triggered this extreme condition, but nothing as dramatic as one might think. We're very blessed that those closest to us are alive, albeit with the various ups and downs of the living. Our son does have a congenital neurological/medical condition that clearly is using his brain as a playground. In private, we call him "best case scenario," because we know we are fortunate that these symptoms would be considered "high functioning" on the spectrum of his condition.
I'm dashing around, trying to complete one of many tasks that will, inevitably, remain incomplete. I dejectedly turn my attention from the half-loaded dishwasher, the disinfectant wipes I tore upon hoping to at least wipe down the table, the online banking site open on my laptop, and a wistful eye on Laundry Mountain.
A deep sigh (it's mine).
"I promise you, you weren't shot," I say flatly.
While you might think I should sound more concerned, please understand that while my home is a disastrous place for many other reasons, the odds of being shot in our quiet, suburban neighborhood are really quite low. Occasionally we will hear abrupt, loud bangs, but they are - without exception - industrious neighbors hammering picket fences, a recycling truck or someone installing underground sprinklers.
My son continues, deeply concerned. "Mom, I need immediate treatment. Come quick." He holds up the body part in question so I can examine it. It's his pointer finger...on which I see absolutely nothing unusual. Upon closer inspection, I suspect he's complaining of a hangnail or a paper cut. I have no idea. But more than a bandage, he needs reassurance that he has not, indeed, been shot.This started a couple of years ago. He's always been a clingy, anxious kid, and he began taking Prozac long before I care to admit. The medications are what allow us to actually leave the house, though. For as long as I remember, he was scared of birthday parties, costumed characters, darkness, certain songs, certain movie scenes. Colic has nothing on the crying spells we endured when he was a baby. Sometimes I could identify the fear-inducing agent; other times I had no clue. Separation anxiety also entered the mix.
Unfortunately, this particular phobia has proven stubborn and persistent. Sadly, I think he will be fighting this one for the long-term.
At 10, he is a smart, creative, affectionate and heartful child. People are constantly telling me that he is special (special like sweet and sincere...not like in the euphemistic sense), that he touches their heart. He really is good down the soul. Unfortunately, that purity and kindness coexists with deeply rooted anxiety and fear. His intelligence counter-intuitively exacerbates the symptoms, fueling his imagination, and proving to be tragically debilitating.
When it comes to the WORRIES, we are at first patient, sympathetic, supportive. We consult with psychologists, specialists and cognitive behavioral therapists, trying a variety of methods and antidotes: worry time; absurdities; talk therapy; role playing; journals; ignoring; exposure; catchphrases; rules; lockboxes. We send the WORRIES packing. We feed them to the fishes. We read books about tomatoes, worry hills and buckets (he has now hidden the books and refuses to read even one more).
We are proud of him for his perseverance in overcoming his anxiety enough to keep going. He triumphantly reports that the good parts of the day outnumbered the WORRY parts. We're relieved and slightly concerned that our son insists and achieves in keeping his fears private, although we question what classmates think when he randomly groans, dramatically clutches his throat and checks his own pulse during math.
His hypochondria begins with himself and extends to those he loves. To him, a shaving cut indicates an infected limb that must be amputated or I will die. If his father is running a few minutes behind, his "go-to" reaction is that his father must be the victim of a fatal car accident, not simply traffic. He touches the dog's nose to see if it feels colder or hotter than yesterday. His sister is not breathing rhythmically enough in her sleep. A little rain indicates the onset of another Hurricane Katrina.
We have a few possible explanations for what triggered this extreme condition, but nothing as dramatic as one might think. We're very blessed that those closest to us are alive, albeit with the various ups and downs of the living. Our son does have a congenital neurological/medical condition that clearly is using his brain as a playground. In private, we call him "best case scenario," because we know we are fortunate that these symptoms would be considered "high functioning" on the spectrum of his condition.
Top 10 Things NOT to Say
Top 10 things not to say to moms of children with special needs…and what I’m really thinking when you do.
I wrote this several years ago, but I can't think of a better first post!
I wrote this several years ago, but I can't think of a better first post!
- “I don’t know how you do it.” No, you really don’t. And I really don’t know either, but I wasn’t given much of a choice. I’m a mom doing mom things. Wait - did I miss an opt-out checkbox somewhere? Figures.
- “You shouldn’t worry. Some kids are just late talkers.” Well, that’s good for them and perhaps true for some. But my daughter is not “just a late talker” – she has autism. I’ll be lucky if she talks at all. So, I WILL worry and I will not take your advice to "wait and see."
- “I’m so tired. My son was up all night last night.” Just last night? Really? He actually sleeps through all the other nights? Cool.
- “Our road trip was a disaster. My daughter didn’t stop talking the whole way there.” Wow, you just described a dream come true for my daughter. Of course, perhaps your child has an obsession with racecars and manages to tie every discussion back to racecars, drilling you on the most arcane details about racecars that no 6-year-old – let alone 36-year-old -- should know unless they’re employed by NASCAR. In that case, I completely understand. Too much talking.
- “You’re so lucky you can park there. I had to park a mile away.” Yes, I’m fortunate to have a disabled tag on my car. Jealous are ya?
- “We’ve been waiting in this line for an hour, and you get to flash some pass and step right onto Snow White’s Scary Adventure? Your kids look perfectly fine. That’s not really fair." Sorry I forgot my diagnoses signage today. You're 100 percent correct that this is not fair. I have two kids with special needs who couldn’t stand still in line for four minutes even if Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory was on the other side. Do you really want to trade places?
- “We’re so over-programmed schlepping to soccer, art, dance… We really need to cut a couple of activities out next quarter.” Great idea! Me too. Help me decide: Should it be OT? PT? Speech? The neurologist? Psychiatrist? Social Skills Group? Which one do you think we should cancel?
- “You really must be special to be blessed in this way.” Come on. Really? THIS is the trophy?
- “I haven’t heard from you in awhile. You didn’t even return my call!” My friend, on my best days I can barely remember where the phone is, let alone find five waking minutes to use it. And you know what, please understand that if I actually find a few minutes amid the mounds of paperwork, insurance appeals, appointments, work, therapy and actually spending a few quality minutes with my family, I’m more likely to crash on the couch than pick up the phone to detail my ridiculous life. But please keep calling - minus the guilt trips. I really do need you.
- “You probably don’t want to hear about my kids anymore. It must be hard listening to ‘normal’ kid talk.” Well, yes, it’s very hard, and I’m sad that my child will face challenges more difficult than not getting the lead in the school play or not eating his vegetables. However, that doesn’t make me less happy for you and your children. You might be surprised to hear that most of the time, I don't compare at all. Your kids are like alien species to me. I promise you that whatever you're telling me, I'm simply awestruck by their superpowers. And by the way ..."normal?"
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