Lips! They have lips – big, red, pouty, sexy lips. I do believe that lips are the most under-rated part of the female anatomy. I mean, how many men swoon over your lips? I’ll tell you, not one man in my entire several decade life has ever looked twice at my lips. Granted, they are pencil thin, and granted, I couldn’t pull off the red, pouty look if you paid me. But I CAN pull off the gentle, subtle pink or mauve look, and what a difference it makes, both to my beauteous self esteem as well as to my pencil thin lips.

In the present economic state of the world, we hate-to-daters can’t afford to buy brand new outfits, perfumes, or shoes before every date with a new man. But generally speaking, we CAN afford to head over to Walgreens and get a new tube of luscious, juicy, and oh so red (pink in my case) lipstick offered by the likes of L’Oreal, Maybelline, Revlon, or Cover Girl.  Not surprising, during this recession, the sales of lipstick have indeed skyrocketed for the very reasons I suggest to you here – cheap chic.

In the next weeks, I present to you The Lipstick Trilogy. These three articles will talk to you about the History of Lipstick – and believe me, you are going to be mighty surprised by this; instructions on How to Buy Lipstick, and finally, guidelines on How to Apply Lipstick.

Men, and so you don’t feel left out, I’ll also present a series for you on hair gels, mousse, hairsprays, and pomades. How cool is that? Unlike a woman’s lips, a man’s hair is highly rated on the attractiveness scale. I call this series The Trump (as in Donald) Trilogy.

My friends, I look forward to our next session, and in the meantime, enjoy your lips, ladies, and gents – think hair, albeit not as in Donald Trump.

Anyway, I was reading through my daughter’s Facebook page last night and I came across what was to me, a new term. The term was Bumpit. As in bum pits (no deodorant?), or a bumping it? I am embarrassed, would never admit this to my daughter, but had to google it. And guess what? Remember the old beehive hairdos from many moons ago? The do where we had to teeze our hair into oblivion and then took a month to get the snarls out? Bingo! A Bumpit is a device that eliminates the need to teeze, Louise, and props the hair up mechcanically. Go figure. The wonders of modern technology.

After the shiny, sparkly, bright valentines came the love notes. Indeed, by the time we got to 6th, 7th, and 8th grades, the valentine thing had become passè, so we took to passing these long, clever, even illustrated love notes to the designated love of the week. I remember spending hours on these things, making sure my handwriting was perfect (you should see it now!), tracing some very unusual drawing — maybe a rose or some other flower, and even dousing it with my favorite perfume: Emeraude (ouch).

In high school there was a minimal amount of letter writing, at least of the long, elaborate sort previously described. Instead, we dealt in hieroglyphics and code in case, God forbid, they should be intercepted. Then off we went to college and here’s where the real deal began! I was madly, hopelessly, pathetically in love with this boy who joined, of all things, the priesthood, after we graduated. I was devastated. Being a pathetically “good girl,” I wrote him long, newsy, upbeat letters, taking utmost care to mask my pain and frustration. Well, that’s besides the point, the point is, I relished writing those letters to John. They were funny, clever, and very intelligent. I took great pains to aptly choose the stationary, never duplicating it in my letters to him, pen was another critical selection: colored inks were in, so I had to find the right color for the right paper, and then again: handwriting. I was never one of those girls with girly-girl handwriting so I often opted to print instead.

My letter writing was always a very important activity for me, and instead of piled-up emails to answer, I was rabid about answering letters sent to me. In addition to the love of the moment, I also wrote to relatives and friends, and each and every letter provided me an opportunity to experience my ritual yet again. Indeed — it was a ritual, it was Zen.

WRONG! Oh, don’t get me wrong, it is much easier to be light and airy on this blog page, but catch me in a “moment” and the light turns dark, the airy becomes suffocating. But the point is that those bottomless barrels can actually lead to something new and exciting if we take it slow and easy, one foot in front of the other, big breath in, exhale slow.

Now, I start with moved rocks and empty barrels because I do believe life has gotten absurdly tough for us women, 50+. What I know is that an inordinate number of the women I know of my age have become unemployed recently, and that their job hunts have been fruitless. Some have been unemployed for a year or more. Others take low end jobs, and then end up having to take on a second one to barely make ends meet. I keep finding my freelance and teaching options whittling away, unless I work for pittance or allow myself to be treated horribly. This is discouraging stuff.

But I’m determined to figure this out, because we are gorgeous, intelligent, funny, vibrant women, and damn if we’re just going to “go away.”What I realized first is that we are surely being passed over in favor of younger women who have much stronger technology skills, who can honestly out-text, out-IM, and out-video us. Fair enough. Then I realized something very critical. I realized that we are part of the Baby Boom generation — that amazing, creative, robust generation that outnumbers all generations since.

Now, to continue my thoughts, women always outnumber men, especially as we get older and the shorter life spans of men kick in. So what we have is a huge segment of the population, the majority of whom are women, who will be making purchasing decisions and commanding considerable consumer power. We will also have a world full of companies that don’t have a clue how to design products for, market to, etc. women because they’ve laid us all off and they have written us off as unimportant. So, far-fetched, but imagine that we cause a revolution in technology, a return to the Stone Age, the place where we’ll find that rock at the bottom of the barrel. Say hello to Wilma!!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Tuesday evening, as is my daily habit, I watched the 6 pm news when to my sheer horror, her name and photo were blasted on the screen. I began to shake and my breathing quickened. I was alone and I longed to have someone with whom to share this nightmare, because surely it was that, a nightmare, and when I went to email her tomorrow morning, she would respond in her usual, almost instantaneous fashion. But no, that would not happen. It would not ever happen.

As if it were not horror enough, her husband was arrested for her murder. It was said that at 10 am on Monday morning, he strangled her. Pure and simple. Simple? I think not. Unless, what about that moment, that transition, that one last breath before there are no more? Is that simple or a terribly complicated moment of being human?

Unbelievably, this man, this monster, also injured their beautiful English Springer Spaniel, Riley. Riley was found shaking and bleeding outside the car where her husband had left Christine’s lifeless body; Riley was her dog, her baby. Oh how she loved that dog. Riley will be okay, one good note in this unthinkable tragedy. At least, he will be okay physically. Will he ever recover from the emotional loss of his bond with Christine — a bond as deep as the bottomless pond by which they were found?

Her husband admitted to the murder. In fact, he called 911 at 2 am Tuesday morning, which set the investigation and his arrest into motion. And so this chapter is closed.

I haven’t seen Christine in over a year, but with crystalline memory, I think about our talks about the slowing demand for our services as the economy began its tumble. We talked about her trips to Spain, her birth home, and about how she loved taking long respites from her life here. We talked about her work — I used her book as my text in a class I taught on information design. She also came in to speak and work with my students. She was her dynamic, bursting with enthusiasm, high energy self. They loved her.

I have her business card sitting right here beside me. It is simple and striking, like she was. It leads you to her website which is packed with the most remarkable, incredible photography I have ever seen.

And so, my friend a beautiful lady, my prayer is that you rest in peace, that by my friendship with you, I am somehow sprinkled with your remarkable energy. I am blessed by having known you. Sweet dreams and unending thanks for your incredible being and my intersection with it.

Good night.

As I emerge from menopause, I come out a much stronger, more confident, and a more vocal woman. I do not, and will not tolerate hurtful or inexcusable behaviors. But as I vocalize my displeasure, I become “the crazy one,” or “She’s got a negative attitude,” among a whole bevy of other comments. Yes, I deal straight. Yes, at times it’s difficult. Yes, some people can’t handle it. Yes, those people are often family.

I am basically estranged from my birth family, but that should have occurred a long time ago, say a myriad of therapists and friends along the way. I feel strong, exhilarated even, and at long last, in control of my own life. I am also mad as hell because while I spread my wings and fly, the “family” talks behind closed doors, closed hands, on secrret phone calls and text messages. What’s worse, it’s all about stones. Do they hurt? Yes and no. The main hurt comes from my anger at judgement which is based on supposition, not fact. The anger also comes from purposeful attempts to spread what is private.

So yes, I am alone as far as my family of origin is concerned. No, I am not alone in my family of choice.

Communication  between us can get interesting, even after quite some years together. Consider this: there is the standard man communication thing, as in lack there of, coupled with a man who lives in complete silence, a silence that sometimes suits him, so he says. And now he has a new hearing aid that enables him to turn the volume up and down — and this is the aha moment.

Being with a deaf man has been a learning experience, and really, despite his silent refuge, I don’t notice that I can hear and he can’t, until he “chooses” not to “hear.” Contradiction? Not really. To “hear,” Dominic needs to keep eyes forward, looking at my face, my eyes, my lips. He can’t do something else while “listening” to me, he is, in that sense, trapped.

I can only imagine the anger and frustration this generates in him. Always feeling controlled, never really free unless he ignores the taps on his arm, the hands waving in front of his face, and the loud shouts that hope to trigger his hearing aid into recognizing there is sound nearby.

I grew up in a lot of silence. I am an only child of incredibly dysfunctional parents — one dead, one alive. I was only allowed to communicate when it was convenient so I lived in big pools of quiet, though sound was a part of my world.

Anyway, not really going anywhere with this except to celebrate Dominic’s new hearing aid and his new found ability to have some control over the sound in his otherwise silent world.

Are you ready for a story? It starts in May when school (teaching at local college) ended and along with it, so did paychecks. Back in March, my main client and quite lucrative account bit the dust quite unexpectantly and due to his own financial woes.

My summer was looooong and “simple.” It was simple because whatever expenditures I made were of the beg, borrow, and not steal variety. Actually, when I was able to keep myself “present,” I was okay, but when I strayed into the land of hysteria, I was not good. That’s where my man, Dominic came in. He is as solid and steady as they come, so when I started gyrating like a top, he quite gently put his arms around me to keep get my energy under control.

What else? Family isses, and we’re talking BIG TIME family issues. Details? Nope, not going there. Suffice it to say, my family now consists of one loyal son, one loving man, his lively and loving son, and five loving and loyal dogs.

Ah, but then there are friends. I am blessed with some precious people who enrich my life in always stunning ways. They, too, are family.

I am back teaching, though things are tight. I am doing one fabulously fun and exciting thing: writing a book: the biography of Christina Aguilera. I barely knew who she was when I began tis endeavor, but have since discovered she is an astoundingly mature, sexy, self-assured young woman. In fact, I have even started wearing red lipstick.

First, family issues. My father remarried several years ago, and what began as happiness for him has twisted into something smelly and ugly. Now this is love at 80+ we’re talking about. The crux of it is like this:

• She is, as my mother said before she passed on, “All about Roxanne” (name disguised, etc.)
• She has 6 kids + a zillion associated personages amounting to a most overwhelming cast of thousands
• They “invited” (insisted) that everyone attend all holiday, and then some, events.
• I did not attend all holiday, and then some events, and gradually became the pariah of the clan.
• He began to enable my 22 year old daughter by supporting her through her alcoholic bouts and various school dropouts.
• He engaged in a most inappropriate relationship with my daughter where he shared my private communications with him.

Got the picture? It’s worse, but will spare the gories.

As of March, I lost my main source of income– no notice, no severance, no nothing — just a big, fat, deep dark, recession-lined hole. Over the summer, the income was reduced even further because my teaching load had ceased for the summer. I am now so far behind I don’t think I’ll ever catch up.

Retirement? What’s that? I’ll be working until I’m 105.

And then, last month I was diagnosed with emphysema.

As it is said, it doesn’t rain but it pours. On the father et al front, I take great solace and strength from the fact that after 55 years, and almost that many therapists who said to dump him, I stood up to the old tyrant and finally did just that. My daughter? After years of being treated like her slave and whipping post, I have become silent and unavailable. As for the financial shit? Well, still holding my breath on that one, and cursing anything that hints of “Corn.”

However, while this series of tornadic events whirls about, out-of-control and without end, I have this anchor as I stand here in the middle, observing with interest and dispensing with the rage of ages. The anchor has a name — it is Dominic. And see, he “gets it.” He gets how to be healthy. He does not “fix it.” But he’s there. If I needed to jump ship and sell my house (probably should, won’t), he has opened his arms and house to me. Like I said, I won’t, because it wouldn’t be healthy. I need to fix this, not get rescued.