Madonna and Child

There’s got to be a burgeoning 12 step program somewhere for me.  I know better than to go to Neiman’s to shop for cosmetics.  Like a moth to a flame, I just can’t help myself. Remember this?

It started last month.  It’s all Frederic’s fault.  Back in June I was suckered lured, enticed into meeting the legendary celebrity stylist at an in-store event.  I wasn’t insulted, not even once.  He even said I had great hair and beautiful eyes.  I blame that one complimentary phrase for what happened next.

While basking in the glory of my gorgeous hair and peepers, one of the Barbies mentioned casually, that Madonna’s personal make-up artist, , would be in Dallas on June 19^th, at the store, giving advice.  I was further informed that Gina Brooke (pictured) is coincidentally the artistic director of Shu Uemura.  (Can you say cha-ching?) I like Shu Uemura so much I blew my whole stash of InCirlce points last year on a kit that came with Swarovski crystal in-laid feather eyelashes and a gold eyelash curler.  Just the thing every stay-at-home mother needs, don’t you agree?

Moth, meet flame.  I booked an appointment post haste. 

Let me pause and say this, I don’t really like Madonna.  At all.  I used to, I think, a long, long, long time ago…back in her “Lucky Star” days.  But that was a long, long, long time ago.  She pushed me over the Borderline.  My subsequent attempts to embrace The Material Girl…eh, not so much.  Oh, let’s see, I’ll sum it up for you, there ‘s been:  Enough Black Rubber Bracelets to Destroy Life on Planet Earth, Mousse and Perms: Don’t Try This at Home (aka Why My Yearbook Pictures From 1986 Suck), Simulated Sex at the MTV Awards (aka Nice.Dress.), The Black Jesus (aka Getting Dumped by Pepsi), Can’t She Afford and Orthodontist Yet? Aka (Seriously? Is She British), Could You Leave Your Hair Alone (aka Cuffs and Collar Don’t Match), Sean Penn, Dick Tracy (aka, She Never Met a Dick She Wouldn’t Tracy), Warren Beatty, Truth or Dare (aka Why Amanda Should Never Say “You’re So Fired” to Her Boss), Dennis Rodman (aka Seriously, You Didn’t See That Coming?), her book Sex (aka Oh My Eyes), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Sandra Bernhardt, Your Trainer (aka, Couldn’t You Find a Better Sperm Donor), What Ever Happened to Her (aka That’s Some Good Peeing, alternate title, There’s No Crying in Baseball), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Rosie O’Donell, Who The Hell is Trudie Styler (aka Sting is Still Hot), Who The Hell is Stella McCartney (aka Oh, She Moved to England), That Explains the Teeth (aka Stereotypes Have a Shred of Truth), Cougar Alert (How She Scored Guy Ritchie), They Can Have Her, Why We Should Require Parents to Take a Qualifying Test (aka Rocco, Are You Sure About That), That Always Happens to Me at Clubs (aka Ray of Light), Oh, Now She’s an Expert on Kids Too, What’s the Deal With Kaballah (aka I’m Confused, if She’s So Religious Why is She French Kissing Britney Spears), What Now She’s a Designer? (aka, Nordstrom Will Never be Neiman’s and Here’s Why), Alex Rodriguez  (aka At Least It Wasn’t Derek Jeter), Homewrecker…and in three simple words:  Too.  Much.  Drama.

A waste of my time, a life so completely contrived it makes me nauseous.

But as usual, I digress.  I’ll hand it to Madonna, she’s been around for a long, long, long time.   

I used this analysis to justify my impending consultation with Gina Brooke.  After all, if Madonna, nearing 50, can look like that, I needed to do this.  I had to do this.  For you.

So, yesterday morning, I sprung out of bed, ready for my consultation.  But first, life intervened.  I had to pick up my gardener.  On the way back, I nearly ran over a baby bird.  So, obviously, I had to do a u-turn, and go back to save the bird.  Right now, this very minute, I am probably harboring bird flu.  The Spawn was put in charge of the care and feeding of the bird, because less than one hour to go before the consult, I had to go to the bank to get a form notarized (or The Spawn wouldn’t be going to Philadelphia on Monday).  When I got back, I had less than 10 minutes to get ready, less the 8.5 minutes I pissed away trying to free the Polaris, which was spewing a steady stream of 40,000 gallons of chlorinated pool water in a free-form waterfall into the creek behind my house.  As usual, I managed to soak myself.  I had under 90 seconds to make it on time, I slid into dry clothes, and drove like a maniac with The Spawn in tow to make my 10 a.m.  By that time, I had warmed considerably to the idea of looking exactly like Madonna.

Once at Neiman’s, I saw the spread they laid out in preparation for Gina Brookes appearance.  A dozen or so stools lined up in front of God and everyone right on the main drag.  I was guided by a Barbie to a stool.  Sounds familiar, I know.  Kind of creepy…

My transformation started with the Shu Uemura skin care line.  I was oiled, wiped, patted and cleaned.  That led to a dizzying array of tonics, lotions, serums, creams, all to get me ready.  I counted at least 8 steps, and I wasn’t looking like The Material Girl yet, but I was hopeful.

I asked about price.  Turns out, each one of those little jars and bottles comes with a price tag of $50-$150 a pop.  Just to dip my toe in the water, I was looking at $750 dollars.  At that point I was Mad-…we were yet to add the –onna.

Let’s pause for a moment, again, for one of my little tangents.  $750 is a drop in the bucket.  I’ve spent thousands, no tens of thousands on my glamour spiral, punctuated oh-so-eloquently by my barista turned boy-Friday.  His eyes crossed paths with an old picture of me from many moons ago… “Wow,” he remarked, “You used to be foxy.”  Ouch.

Let’s see, there’s the micro-dermabrasion packages, Botox (and yes, I’ve been shooting botulism into my face since age 27), peels, facials, prescriptions, OTC, and myriad “miracles” all designed to bring out the inner foxy.  That doesn’t even take into account the Clinique, Lancôme, Estee Lauder, Keihl’s, Fresh, Orlane, Darphin, Le Mer…the big guns.  Nor does it consider the impulse buys from CVS:  Neutrogena, L’Oreal, and all the hundred of little jars filling my bathroom.  Yes, I said HUNDREDS.  It might even be THOUSANDS.  Math’s not my thing. I’d been in that same stool so many times before, I load up on so much product, I never really get to the goodies.  The make-up.  They lose me somewhere between first you need to take care of your skin, when all I am thinking of is: skanky, yes, but make me look like Madonna.

After establishing that my child would be unable to attend college because first I needed to take care of my skin, I was onto the make-up part.  Oh, and I forgot to tell you about the questionnaire.  It was mandatory (Who makes these rules anyway?).  I had to fill out a detailed form admitting all of my “concerns.” (Circle all that apply: sagging, dryness, oiliness, uneven skin tone, etc.) And did I want (circle one) a look that was: trendy, sophisticated, classic, or natural.  (Which begs the question, isn’t “natural” just that?)   Oh, I have divulged less personal information at my gynecologists’ office.

I circled “natural” and left most of the rest blank.  Under the heat of questioning I buckled…my vague “I don’t knows” and “I never thought about its” weren’t good enough.  I had to define myself fully if I was to look like Madonna. 

Asked what colors I liked, I picked brown, pink, and neutral.  Did you hear me say purple?  I love glitter? I’ll be on the red carpet later, so hook me up?

Barbie started with a mousse base.  Under base, it’s called, and as we all know, base needs an under.  No, base isn’t a base.  Think of the rules of America’s past time:   baseball.  First, second, and third all have an “under”.  Otherwise, why do we need a short-stop? 

But I digress.

So, I got the under base.  It was light, and I could hardly feel anything at all.  Next, came the base.  I know, we already covered that, but my flaws surely didn’t require more than two steps to cover…

Yeah they did. I’ll admit it, I am heavily flawed.  Add to base and under base the concealer, followed in short shrift by the eye concealer.  I “needed” two concealers, too.  One for my face over first and second base, and, obviously, to cover my dark circles.  Speaking of which, circle one: under 5, 5 to 8, over eight.  How many hours of sleep to you get a night?

Me?  I sleep like a baby.  The Trophy Husband (aka Snoring Victim), not so much…

Regardless, I have dark circles I guess.  Top that off with some powder, and I was ready for some brown, pink and neutral color… Make me Madonna.

Did you do the math on that deal?  Add six steps to the eight previous, that equals $1100 for those of you Rio Linda.  And, the brushes, I forgot the brushes.  Fingers and sponges aren’t going to make me and you look like Madonna.  Add another $500.

I glanced 10 stools down to The Spawn, basking in her under base.  I thought of how happy she would be at a community college or vo-tech program.  Because, I was racking up some serious beauty, her education would have to wait if I am to look like Madonna.

You’d think $1600 would deliver a home run, and 45 minutes in, people would be asking me for my autograph.  Think again.

A gorgeous creature, with lacey Manolos, and a demure frock worked her way down the stools.  It was Gina Brooke.  I eavesdropped on her consultation with my neighbor, a detailed explanation of how easy it was to apply fake eyelashes.  I listened intently.  I don’t want those crystal/feather babies to go to waste.  I got a snarky text from The Trophy Husband.  About the bird.  Nervously, I mentioned the bird to my Barbie. Gina Brooke’s head snapped to my stool.  I can spot another animal lover a mile away.

 

So, when it was my time, when I finally had the chance to be Madonna, she asked, “So you saved a baby bird?  That is good luck…”

We were on…she looked at my eyes, the same ones Frederic loved and said, “They’re murky green.”  Pause for my stunned reaction, and response, “Beg your pardon?”  “The only colors you can wear to make them pop are brown,” pause for my enthusiastic nod, “gold,” pause again for a nod, “and purple.”  Purple?  Seriously?  I hate purple make-up. 

Here’s a disturbing thought, me, in 20 years, with 100 dogs, 200 cats, and complete that look with purple make-up.  The only thing worse would be some circa 1985 peach blush.

Uh-oh…next up was the peach blush.  Yeah.  You heard me.

The coup-de-gras, was, however, the next layer.  Gina advised me to mix the $125 serum with metallic gold bronzer, and dab that all over my brown down to and on my cheekbones.  “It’s something that will make you glow,” she explained.  I guess she hasn’t done a lot of gardening.  In Dallas.  In July.  That shit was either going to melt away, or be some kind of wildlife attractant. “And,” she continued, “It’s something I do for the red carpet, you can do this when you go out, it’s something special you can do every day.”

Reality check much?

I’m guessing Gina Brooke doesn’t know a lot of house fraus.  At-home mothers.  Red carpet?  People, seriously, the last time I was on a red carpet, it was 1988, it was in a pool hall, and my parents thought I was I was studying…  Going out?  Where?  To target?  And, let me tell you this, I do something special every day, if it’s a good day, every other if it’s not…It’s called SHOWERING.

The next thing I knew, I was a-glow in purple and peach splendor.  The Barbie said, handing me a mirror, “What do you think?”

Let me describe my look in the words of Lovely Lizzie, the British ex-pat now living in Euless, Texas, and one of my favorite people.  As Lovely Lizzie would say, I was “mutton dressed as lamb,” and it was, I admit, exactly like Madonna.

All this could be mine for just under $2000.  I slinked away with eyeliner (purple), a lip liner, and a gloss. The Spawn, too, looked like Madonna.  We were quite fabulous, Like a Ray of Light.  The Trophy Husband, barricaded in his Man Cave said only this, “Wow.”  It was a neutral wow.

I was careful not to move all day.  In fact, I couldn’t move, the layers paralyzed my facial muscles.  Or go outside.   Or sweat.  And, that was another thing, my glow, at least in my opinion, made me look sweaty. I noticed the weirdest thing, though.   By 6 p.m., I had to pee, and after washing my hands, clicked the light off, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Not only was I glowing, I actually glowed in the dark.  I looked sort of like one of the raccoons living in my attic. 

Looking like Madonna is way harder than I thought.