I am very fair.
I read in a magazine once that Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore had porcelain skin. I decided my whitey white whiteness parallelled theirs and from that day forward I thought of my own fair skin as porcelain. And I don't hesitate to correct those who try to call me pasty. This bitch is porcelain. And don't you forget it.
But because I am so very fair it is EXTREMELY hard to find a foundation white enough for this white. I always tell my customers I just have to take the lightest foundation and add white to it. And then it's almost light enough.
Amazingly enough I do use a foundation that's pretty damn near close to my actual skin tone.
(Product Placement: Estee Lauder Double Wear Foundation. It will change your life. My mother swears by it. And the Divas at my dance studio will testify that I never sweat it off. Not even after three classes. And trust me. This. Girl. SWEATS).
I went in for a makeover the day of my movie premiere and didn't tell the gal I had anything on. She did my eyes and just used concealer in a few spots on my face and that was it. Someone walked by and commented on how great my look was and asked my makeup artist what she'd used. She went on to say that she'd used that particular concealer, But the rest is just her skin, she'd said.
Best. Compliment. EVER.
Because actually, I was wearing my foundation.
It's just that good that it looked like my own skin.
Things aren't always what they seem.
Mama used to always remind me, Judge a man by what he does not what he says. Because words are very easy to manipulate. But most people aren't clever enough to trick their actions into not giving away their motives.
Words lie. Actions scream truths.
Mr. Volcano used to drive me batty because he was the only person I knew who always wanted to talk but would speak a plethora of words without ever actually saying anything. You know those people who can just talk and talk but after you leave the conversation you still don't understand what the hell they're thinking? It was like that. ALL the time. If I date one more man who needs to talk about his feelings all the time I'm going to use tweezers to pull out every one of my eyelashes.
I was always the hopeless romantic growing up. I was the girl writing poetry and feeling so emotional and wanting to share all her feelings. And my first love was this poet, this artist and musician. And that seemed SO sexy, you know? That he was so in touch with all he was and he'd slow dance with me under the stars and write me songs and write short stories about me. He always called me Maggie. And he, Jake.
But NOW? Now I hear that my cousin's groom wept when he saw her come down the aisle and my first thought was, she's marrying a WOMAN! If I ever were getting married and as I walked down the aisle in a sexy dress my hub to be got so emotional he lost it in front of the crowd? I'd turn around and walk out. Weeping in private, one on one, showing a raw, vulnerable side? Totally sweet and totally sexy. But weeping in front of hundreds of people? SO.NOT.SEXY. I'll take men I prefer not to marry for 1000, please.
But I know I'm not attracted to those burly, manly men who chug beer and yell at the refs on TV and think shooting deer is a sport, either. I am doubtful that hybrids of these two male extremes do exist.
My brother told me that if I want passion then I have to accept the chaos that goes with it.
And if I want dependability then I have to settle for stagnancy.
What you need is a loyal man who would be just fine if you died, he offered.
WHAT?! I'd guffawed. These are my options? Obsessive and crazy or indifferent and comfortable? I. WANT. PASSION!!
I really do.
I choose the crazies over the meek, ANY day.
I want a flame that BURNS.
Not one that dies out yet feels safe.
Friendships are for comfort.
Lovers are for heat.
And getting burned is all part of the fire, baby.
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