City Slickers

C and I are on the road this week, traveling to visit family in the area of the east coast that surrounds New York City.  We are going to attend a funeral for C’s grandma, and while this is a sad event indeed, it is always interesting to see too, what kind of family communion and deep connection can take place during life events like this.  So on we go. 

As we drive near NYC, it gets me considering the vast differences between my world in the north and the one that exists in metro-America.  There are  some similarities as well, namely the possibility of living much of life within a square mile, and the quantity of hot dogs sold daily. 

But the differences, they are vast and wide, and joyously entertaining. 

	NYC	Way Up Noth
Underground Gaming	Texas Hold ‘Em	Pass the Pigs (I’ve got a leaning jowler over here!!)
Fall Apparel	Leather boots and sweater dresses	Snowpants and Muck boots
Spring Apparel	Bright colored ties and dresses; open-toed shoes	Snowpants and Muck boots
Wildlife	Horses, squirrels, rats	Moose, squirrels, cats
Cuisine	Pan-seared Chilean sea bass with leeks and truffle broth	Moosemeat.
Date Night	Fine dining and a show	Making the drive to the Black Frog (please read the menu)
Vehicle Safety	Locked doors; car alarm; possibly the Boot	Unlocked doors; keys in; engine running (Leave it running, or it will die. Remember, it’s -20* outside.)
Illegal Activity	Drug running	Drug running (Canada’s our neighbor, eh)

Well, we’re more similar than I thought, which is still not very.  Being this close to the city makes me long a little bit for some Thai food and a musical, but simultaneously it reminds me of our piney mountains and stunning sunsets, and the fact that skyscrapers, though incredible, are no competition for a mighty river.  So, New York, you can keep your truffle broth and your open-toed shoes this spring.  I’ll be busy taking on mud-season with hip boots and a snorkel.

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Facial Reconstruction

This past Saturday morning, my friend and I were getting ready to head out to the children’s museum I told you about yesterday.  Her two year-old daughter was keeping me company as I tidied up my bedroom.  She was helping me pull the comforter up on my bed, wiping down the bathroom sink with me, and generally doing all the work.  Along with the normal stuff, our real estate agent had scheduled a showing for later that morning, so we had to get the place clean as well as replenish all of our bribe money, which really takes some time.

So my little sidekick and I finish cleaning up, and since it’s getting close to the time we’d decided to head out for the day, I return to the bathroom to start “doing my face”. 

Doing 

my 

face.

Now, I don’t know where that phrase came from – I don’t even like using it – but I also don’t feel like I wear enough product to warrant saying that I’m “doing my makeup”, so really, there isn’t a more pleasant alternative.  I apologize.   

So I begin doing my face - putting my face on, taking my face off – whatever it is that involves washing and covering up the zits that have sprouted during the night.  And as I perform each step of my routine, my little friend is asking me, “what’s that thing”, or “what are you doing”.  It started innocently, with me explaining why we wash our faces, but we were quickly in sinister territory. 

It all started when I pulled a set of tweezers out of my bag.  If there was ever an instrument that looked hazardous to your face, this was it.  She looked horrified.  “What are you doing?!”, she asked, in that sweet but appalled voice that only children posses.  She looked like I’d just shown her where the vet sticks the cat thermometer for the most accurate reading, and was thinking that perhaps that was how one got the most accurate human reading, too.  In that moment I realized that what I was doing seemed totally absurd.  Here I was, telling a two year old that I was using sticky black paint to make my eyelashes long and pretty like hers.  I was using foundation to cover any spots on my face.  (Spots?  Don't animals have spots?)  I tried to whip through the lipstain phase so she wouldn’t ask why I was doing it.  The only answer I could think of had to do with clowns and strawberries.  It was better to stay quiet.

Back when I was in high school, I went on this youth retreat with my church.  One evening we played a game.  We were told to find a partner, and each set was given a bag of supplies.  The object of the game was to use the supplies in your bag as makeup for your partner’s face, and that the best job done in the allotted time would win.  I, of course, became the canvas, and as soon as the game began, my partner cracked open our first supply: tomato ketchup.  Now, I don’t know when it became a good idea to take something with vinegar as a key ingredient and smear it all over your face, but we were doing it, and we were going to win.  Next, she screwed the top off a jar of marshmallow fluff.  I can’t even remember where that went.  Mustard followed that.  Yes, what graces your Hebrew National in July was now giving my eyelids the nice sheen that accompanies chemical burns.  Thank goodness we didn’t have any combs - it could have been mascara.  Lastly, I got hit with a dollop of peanut butter lipstick.

For the sake of retelling, I really wish I had a peanut allergy, but I don’t.  I also have a photo of this, but it's at the other house.  Regrets.

So there I am, sitting on the carpet, covered in lunch condiments.  And in the time it takes for everyone to be judged and the winners announced, I’ve developed two pink, semi-permanent, soda-can sized circles on my cheeks.  It took at least 12 hours for the ketchup stain to fade, and I’m pretty sure my face stung for at least the next day.

We did win the game, though.

I'm hoping that my friend's daughter doesn't take Saturday's makeup lesson to heart.  As I was applying what I consider normal tools of maintenance, all she probably saw were the makings of a good hot dog. So please, next time you guys are at a ball game, get her a pretzel.  No cheese, no mustard.  Just salt.  Or better yet, dry.