I've always been lucky to have inherited my Grandmother's beautiful skin. Words can't express how grateful I am now for those genes, but during my teen years, I could have cared less. And it was only a few years ago that I started paying attention to products for the face.
In a past blog I wrote about Olay's line filling miracle cream. Well, move over Olay. Sisely of Paris has entered the room! I was introduced to their night cream by accident after spending a certain amount of money at Neiman Marcus and receiving the complimentary gift.
The cashier handed me my new leopard print bag, the free gift when you spent $100, and told me how much I was going to enjoy the samples inside. Okay, I thought to myself. A few perfume testers, a tube of lipstick, a moisturizer packet...yeah, yeah.
When I got into my car, the anticipation was just too much. I was a kid in a candy store. So, I pulled out the variety of freebies and began sorting through the delicious choices right there in my car. I almost missed the fifteen minute window for getting out of the parking lot with my paid parking ticket.
The inventory of the bag was really quite impressive. Prada, Givency...but the best sample had to be Sisley's anti-aging night cream. Later that evening, I decided to try it out. I washed my face, opened the miniature gold tube, squeezed out a small amount and applied it to my face. Within seconds I could feel the effects of the cream working. My skin tightened in all the right places and the cream was not only smooth, but it smelled great.
Like most of us today looking for information about something, I Googled Sisley to find out how much this was going to cost me. Are you sitting down? Because I was and I still almost passed out from sticker shock. For a mere $775 you can purchase a 1.7 ounce supply of this heavenly manna. And the disclaimer read...there is a six per customer limit. Really?
Needless to say, I won't be purchasing that product until my singles profile on Millionaire Match attracts a sugar daddy. In the meantime, I did find some on sale on eBay. Cost...$27 and free shipping for three sample size tubes. But I'm worth it!
This is what I found inside: nside I found perfume samples from Prada and Givency.
September 27, 2011
September 5, 2011
My Back Porch
There's just something about a back porch that makes a house a home. Maybe it's because when I'm there, I feel like everything is the way it's supposed to be. Right now I'm sitting on the back porch of my new place - a very quaint two-bedroom apartment in the sprawling metropolis of Baytown.
On my back porch sits a comfortable white wicker chair and a side table where I put my cup of coffee or glass of wine depending on the time of day or rather the kind of day I've had. My visits to the back porch are therapeutic. At dusk the sky parades brilliant colors across the horizon reassuring me that although this day has ended, another one will follow in the morning.
Tonight I was thinking about how I ended up here on this particular back porch. I recently moved into the apartment after my long-term relationship went south. I saw it coming about a year ago, but I guess you don't expect it to happen to you...a second time. I just knew this would be different. I really thought I had cast the perfect prince charming for my fairy tale movie. Okay...so it turns out he wasn't.
After that, I decided that an intervention was what I needed. Enter my therapist. When I go for a session, she often just smiles and listens as she scribbles notes on her 8 1/2 X 11 yellow legal pad. I would love to know what she writes on that thing. If it were me, I'd be doodling stick figures.
I know I could never do what she does without at least once telling my client that I wasn't serving any cheese with that whine. But, she never does. She simply listens and writes on the yellow notepad.
Her office is worth a visit even if you don't get any help. It's beautifully decorated in rich hues and the walls are dotted with paintings that scream femininity.There is a couch that doesn't even remotely resemble the ones you see in the movies, but you'll find a comfortable chair with a side table. There isn't any coffee or wine, but a box of tissues if the need arises. The most intriguing piece in her office is this little bowl of stone figures, each one representing an emotion.
The first time I went, I noticed them. After my second visit, I asked what they were and learned that she uses them to help people who can''t verbalize their emotions. Really? That's a new concept. I've never had a problem expressing my emotions.
I drove to her office for my latest session recently. I was so consumed with anger that I had to figure out what the heck to do with it because if I didn't, it wasn't going to be pretty. Although looking back, the actions from that might have ensured I would get a book publishing deal after being released from prison. Then, I'd make a ton of money and go into hiding.
All joking aside, I walked into the office late because whoever put up the detour signs on Bay Area Boulevard was a complete idiot. I looked through the bowl of stone figures for kicks to see if there was one that could express my anger. Not even close...just saying. Her advice to me was that I should do nothing concerning the anger that involved my hands, feet, or mouth. Thank goodness that didn't rule out body slamming or head butting.
I guess in a way, her office is much like my back porch. It's a place I can go and put together the pieces of life's puzzle. And when my time with her is through, I'll still have my own back porch.
On my back porch sits a comfortable white wicker chair and a side table where I put my cup of coffee or glass of wine depending on the time of day or rather the kind of day I've had. My visits to the back porch are therapeutic. At dusk the sky parades brilliant colors across the horizon reassuring me that although this day has ended, another one will follow in the morning.
Tonight I was thinking about how I ended up here on this particular back porch. I recently moved into the apartment after my long-term relationship went south. I saw it coming about a year ago, but I guess you don't expect it to happen to you...a second time. I just knew this would be different. I really thought I had cast the perfect prince charming for my fairy tale movie. Okay...so it turns out he wasn't.
After that, I decided that an intervention was what I needed. Enter my therapist. When I go for a session, she often just smiles and listens as she scribbles notes on her 8 1/2 X 11 yellow legal pad. I would love to know what she writes on that thing. If it were me, I'd be doodling stick figures.
I know I could never do what she does without at least once telling my client that I wasn't serving any cheese with that whine. But, she never does. She simply listens and writes on the yellow notepad.
Her office is worth a visit even if you don't get any help. It's beautifully decorated in rich hues and the walls are dotted with paintings that scream femininity.There is a couch that doesn't even remotely resemble the ones you see in the movies, but you'll find a comfortable chair with a side table. There isn't any coffee or wine, but a box of tissues if the need arises. The most intriguing piece in her office is this little bowl of stone figures, each one representing an emotion.
The first time I went, I noticed them. After my second visit, I asked what they were and learned that she uses them to help people who can''t verbalize their emotions. Really? That's a new concept. I've never had a problem expressing my emotions.
I drove to her office for my latest session recently. I was so consumed with anger that I had to figure out what the heck to do with it because if I didn't, it wasn't going to be pretty. Although looking back, the actions from that might have ensured I would get a book publishing deal after being released from prison. Then, I'd make a ton of money and go into hiding.
All joking aside, I walked into the office late because whoever put up the detour signs on Bay Area Boulevard was a complete idiot. I looked through the bowl of stone figures for kicks to see if there was one that could express my anger. Not even close...just saying. Her advice to me was that I should do nothing concerning the anger that involved my hands, feet, or mouth. Thank goodness that didn't rule out body slamming or head butting.
I guess in a way, her office is much like my back porch. It's a place I can go and put together the pieces of life's puzzle. And when my time with her is through, I'll still have my own back porch.
February 10, 2011
An Evening with Great Women
While having dinner with some colleagues and a guest author a few nights ago, I was reminded of the intoxicating effect great conversation has on me.
I'm naturally drawn to people who like to talk, but I especially enjoy intelligent, engaging women who have opinions and don't mind sharing them. After the waitress took our order, the four of us began to carry on like best friends reuniting after a long absence. We talked about everything from writing and books to life decisions, movies, and careers. Our corner of the restaurant was buzzing with chatter and excitement.
The evening reminded me of the global dinner party I had last summer where friends joined at my home for ethnic food, wine, and storytelling as hundreds of other women around the world gathered in their own homes that same night. Each of us had a special memory to share though we came from different backgrounds and experiences. Note to self...make the dinner party an annual event!
It's a strange phenomenon, but I feel my mother's presence stronger than any other time when I'm with a group of friends sharing stories. It's almost as if she is sitting at the table, and I half expect to hear her voice as she puts in her two cents worth.
My mom was a beautiful, talented writer and artist who taught me the art of conversation. My dad worked overseas, so my sister and I, who were too afraid to stay alone in the other part of the house, slept with my mom in her king sized bed. She always had a story to tell; sometimes it was a parable from the Bible, other times it was the most fantastical tale I had ever heard. Most nights I think we fell asleep to the sound of her soothing voice.
There is something magical that happens when women come together. After dinner that evening, I left with a renewed sense of purpose, a feeling of peace, and the assurance that anything is possible. A special thanks to Rose Marie for the invitation, Selena for her beautiful soul, and Kate for her inspiration.
I'm naturally drawn to people who like to talk, but I especially enjoy intelligent, engaging women who have opinions and don't mind sharing them. After the waitress took our order, the four of us began to carry on like best friends reuniting after a long absence. We talked about everything from writing and books to life decisions, movies, and careers. Our corner of the restaurant was buzzing with chatter and excitement.
The evening reminded me of the global dinner party I had last summer where friends joined at my home for ethnic food, wine, and storytelling as hundreds of other women around the world gathered in their own homes that same night. Each of us had a special memory to share though we came from different backgrounds and experiences. Note to self...make the dinner party an annual event!
It's a strange phenomenon, but I feel my mother's presence stronger than any other time when I'm with a group of friends sharing stories. It's almost as if she is sitting at the table, and I half expect to hear her voice as she puts in her two cents worth.
My mom was a beautiful, talented writer and artist who taught me the art of conversation. My dad worked overseas, so my sister and I, who were too afraid to stay alone in the other part of the house, slept with my mom in her king sized bed. She always had a story to tell; sometimes it was a parable from the Bible, other times it was the most fantastical tale I had ever heard. Most nights I think we fell asleep to the sound of her soothing voice.
There is something magical that happens when women come together. After dinner that evening, I left with a renewed sense of purpose, a feeling of peace, and the assurance that anything is possible. A special thanks to Rose Marie for the invitation, Selena for her beautiful soul, and Kate for her inspiration.
January 16, 2011
A Day of Nothing
Today was a very untypical day for me. I did absolutely nothing of any merit unless you count the few minutes I used up balancing my bank account and making a grocery list. Oh, and there was the quick trip to pick up my monthly assurance that I will not endure raising another teenager and a quick stop for a chocolate shake.
Other than that, I have nothing to check off on a to do list, and it felt absolutely fantastic. I stayed in my pajamas until well past three, eventually giving those up for some comfy sweat pants and T-shirt. I'm not even sure if I brushed my hair or washed my face this morning. Leftover pizza from last night's outing served as lunch, and the two-day old taco soup was heated up on the stove for dinner.
I spent most of my day reading the latest issue of Cosmo, studying Italian language lessons for my bucket list trip to Italy, playing Scrabble, writing...all with my new best friend the Ipad...and watching some NFL action.
I can remember a time when a day like today would have never happened. Pre- midlife crisis I would spend every waking moment running around like a mad woman trying to earn my domestic goddess badge and mother of the year award. I'm not sure whose expectations those were...mine or those of an imaginary voice telling me that to be still was being lazy.
Thank God I have been delivered from the bondage of such ridiculousness. And the best part is that nobody cared, the little voice I used to hear has been silenced.
Other than that, I have nothing to check off on a to do list, and it felt absolutely fantastic. I stayed in my pajamas until well past three, eventually giving those up for some comfy sweat pants and T-shirt. I'm not even sure if I brushed my hair or washed my face this morning. Leftover pizza from last night's outing served as lunch, and the two-day old taco soup was heated up on the stove for dinner.
I spent most of my day reading the latest issue of Cosmo, studying Italian language lessons for my bucket list trip to Italy, playing Scrabble, writing...all with my new best friend the Ipad...and watching some NFL action.
I can remember a time when a day like today would have never happened. Pre- midlife crisis I would spend every waking moment running around like a mad woman trying to earn my domestic goddess badge and mother of the year award. I'm not sure whose expectations those were...mine or those of an imaginary voice telling me that to be still was being lazy.
Thank God I have been delivered from the bondage of such ridiculousness. And the best part is that nobody cared, the little voice I used to hear has been silenced.
January 1, 2011
Story of My Life?
The end of the year always brings with it a chance for self reflection. Now this can be a good thing unless you begin to fill your mind with the countless what ifs. And let me tell you I am a master at dragging up those missed opportunities, unrealized dreams, and best intentions.
And it doesn't stop with the previous year unfortunately. Sometimes I go decades back to re-examine my past. Of course I know that my life's experiences have made me the person I am today, and all the decisions I've made helped create the life I have now. Okay...whatever.
A famous author once told me that the question "what if" was one the best idea generators for his young adult novels. After considering several of my own...here's the beginning to one possible story of my life. Disclaimer...names have been changed to protect the innocent and some scenes have been fictionalized for effect.
And it doesn't stop with the previous year unfortunately. Sometimes I go decades back to re-examine my past. Of course I know that my life's experiences have made me the person I am today, and all the decisions I've made helped create the life I have now. Okay...whatever.
A famous author once told me that the question "what if" was one the best idea generators for his young adult novels. After considering several of my own...here's the beginning to one possible story of my life. Disclaimer...names have been changed to protect the innocent and some scenes have been fictionalized for effect.
Miranda’s life had been a simple one. After graduating from the American University Paris Midwestern College
In her spare time, she freelanced for style and fashion magazines, and on occasion made time to have dinner with close friends; she rarely dated and was quite content in her downtown loft with her cat, Azure, her paints and easel, and volumes of classic literature.
Miranda usually worked Saturday afternoons at the McNeill; she often found herself standing in the Rose Wing of the gallery lost in Renoir’s landscapes and nudes. The heavy, thick brushstrokes in oil on ancient canvas were hypnotic like fine wine and took her back to Montmarte where so many greats had sat along the Seine capturing the daily life of ordinary French men and women as they came and went.
It was there in the Rose Wing that he first captured her attention – Alonso Romaro, the oldest son of a wealthy, private collector, who had flown in from Columbia
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