Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Donna C.

November 27, 2006

Simple Indulgences

By Madame Donna C.

©2006

As she leaned over the bathroom counter to get a closer look at her face in the mirror, Aunt Bette’s mini-skirt rose even higher.  Her dimpled thighs belied her assertion that she wasn’t yet forty years old.  She patted her limp face with powder to dull the oily shine.  Then she took her eyeliner brush and with delicate strokes demonstrated how to create “Twiggy” eyelashes on the bottom lash line.

With gentle motions, she painted.  First, running the brush under the tap water, and then dabbing it into the hard cake of eyeliner and finally brushing in light strokes beneath her eye.  She admonished me to never, under any circumstances, lean over a mirror on the counter to apply makeup.  I didn’t try it until I was over forty and almost cried when my cheeks fell forward.  I never did that again.

Since she was only blessed with sons, Aunt Bette’s interest in me rivaled Henry Higgins’ interest in transforming Eliza in the infamous musical, My Fair Lady.  Aunt Bette plopped me into a kitchen chair, all but breaking my neck bending it back into the sink and watered down my wild, twisted shoulder-length locks. 

She filled the air with the stench of the “Curl Free” lotion as she combed it through my hair.  She lacquered my tendrils into place with “Dippity Do” stiffening and styling gel and after a hot air blow dry, during which she singed my left ear, the dried gel left tiny white flakes in my black mane each time a wisp moved. Alas, her efforts were for naught as evidenced by my father’s comment that I really should “do something with that hair.”

Aunt Bette, dedicated to her “Donna Improvement Mission”, shopped every store in a six-mile radius to find me the right pair of white patent leather go-go boots that rubbed my heels raw.  Her drive to mold my appearance mirrored the enthusiasm of a toddler with a remote control; she pushed all my buttons.  She pushed me into pantsuits with wide lapels on the jacket and flowing bell-bottom pants in lieu of my Levi blue jeans and washed out t-shirts.  She pushed fragrances behind my ears, hip rotation practice sessions designed to attract men and pushed dangling bead earrings into my tender lobes that then tangled in my thick black hair.

Although annoying, her attention to my femininity, given in love, earned my appreciation.  My mother’s beautiful complexion never needed cosmetics.  Her wavy hair found it’s way to attractive styles on its own.  Her sense of fashion suited her own trim figure yet her eye couldn’t balance clothing on my developing body.  Aunt Bette filled the gaps where my mother lacked expertise.

Aunt Bette aged her way through the decades as a woman seeking the Fountain of Youth.  Her figure became her focus as gravity pulled it downward; so did mine.  Together we tried the Water Diet, Weight Watchers, one day a week fasts and the Watermelon Diet.  She controlled my portions at family dinners.  She inspected my bedroom for hidden treats.  We walked and swam away pounds.

By the time I entered college, unrestrained confidence in my inner beauty caused me to cast off the face paint in the nearest dumpster, donate those designer clothes to the Salvation Army and use Patchouli oil in lieu of the French L’Origan.  As a flower child, I blossomed into beaded headbands, tie-dyed t-shirts and flowing broomstick skirts all accented by fresh flowers in my braids.  My true beauty resided within me and I easily moved through a fulfilling social life and into marriage.

The ensuing years ravaged Aunt Bette’s body.  She lost her hair to chemotherapy; gained lumps where curves once gave her body a sensuous form, and resentment of Old Man Time carved crevices in her face.  She entered remission for a few happy decades, yet eventually her illness returned.

In preparation for my last bedside visit, I painted my face ever so lightly, applied a soft scent, and dressed in an appropriately stylish outfit.  I never forgot the things she taught me, although I still prefer a casual appearance.  I stopped along the way to pickup her favorite indulgence, a Tin Roof sundae minus the roasted peanuts.

I entered the hospital room and her eyes came alive with pride.  I felt good seeing her approval in her smile.  I held out the Tin Roof sundae saying, “I brought you a special treat.”  She furrowed her brow with scorn and said, “I can’t eat that.  I’m on a diet.”

Madame Donna C

Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Donna C.

November 27, 2006

Simple Indulgences

By Madame Donna C.

©2006

As she leaned over the bathroom counter to get a closer look at her face in the mirror, Aunt Bette’s mini-skirt rose even higher.  Her dimpled thighs belied her assertion that she wasn’t yet forty years old.  She patted her limp face with powder to dull the oily shine.  Then she took her eyeliner brush and with delicate strokes demonstrated how to create “Twiggy” eyelashes on the bottom lash line.

With gentle motions, she painted.  First, running the brush under the tap water, and then dabbing it into the hard cake of eyeliner and finally brushing in light strokes beneath her eye.  She admonished me to never, under any circumstances, lean over a mirror on the counter to apply makeup.  I didn’t try it until I was over forty and almost cried when my cheeks fell forward.  I never did that again.

Since she was only blessed with sons, Aunt Bette’s interest in me rivaled Henry Higgins’ interest in transforming Eliza in the infamous musical, My Fair Lady.  Aunt Bette plopped me into a kitchen chair, all but breaking my neck bending it back into the sink and watered down my wild, twisted shoulder-length locks. 

She filled the air with the stench of the “Curl Free” lotion as she combed it through my hair.  She lacquered my tendrils into place with “Dippity Do” stiffening and styling gel and after a hot air blow dry, during which she singed my left ear, the dried gel left tiny white flakes in my black mane each time a wisp moved. Alas, her efforts were for naught as evidenced by my father’s comment that I really should “do something with that hair.”

Aunt Bette, dedicated to her “Donna Improvement Mission”, shopped every store in a six-mile radius to find me the right pair of white patent leather go-go boots that rubbed my heels raw.  Her drive to mold my appearance mirrored the enthusiasm of a toddler with a remote control; she pushed all my buttons.  She pushed me into pantsuits with wide lapels on the jacket and flowing bell-bottom pants in lieu of my Levi blue jeans and washed out t-shirts.  She pushed fragrances behind my ears, hip rotation practice sessions designed to attract men and pushed dangling bead earrings into my tender lobes that then tangled in my thick black hair.

Although annoying, her attention to my femininity, given in love, earned my appreciation.  My mother’s beautiful complexion never needed cosmetics.  Her wavy hair found it’s way to attractive styles on its own.  Her sense of fashion suited her own trim figure yet her eye couldn’t balance clothing on my developing body.  Aunt Bette filled the gaps where my mother lacked expertise.

Aunt Bette aged her way through the decades as a woman seeking the Fountain of Youth.  Her figure became her focus as gravity pulled it downward; so did mine.  Together we tried the Water Diet, Weight Watchers, one day a week fasts and the Watermelon Diet.  She controlled my portions at family dinners.  She inspected my bedroom for hidden treats.  We walked and swam away pounds.

By the time I entered college, unrestrained confidence in my inner beauty caused me to cast off the face paint in the nearest dumpster, donate those designer clothes to the Salvation Army and use Patchouli oil in lieu of the French L’Origan.  As a flower child, I blossomed into beaded headbands, tie-dyed t-shirts and flowing broomstick skirts all accented by fresh flowers in my braids.  My true beauty resided within me and I easily moved through a fulfilling social life and into marriage.

The ensuing years ravaged Aunt Bette’s body.  She lost her hair to chemotherapy; gained lumps where curves once gave her body a sensuous form, and resentment of Old Man Time carved crevices in her face.  She entered remission for a few happy decades, yet eventually her illness returned.

In preparation for my last bedside visit, I painted my face ever so lightly, applied a soft scent, and dressed in an appropriately stylish outfit.  I never forgot the things she taught me, although I still prefer a casual appearance.  I stopped along the way to pickup her favorite indulgence, a Tin Roof sundae minus the roasted peanuts.

I entered the hospital room and her eyes came alive with pride.  I felt good seeing her approval in her smile.  I held out the Tin Roof sundae saying, “I brought you a special treat.”  She furrowed her brow with scorn and said, “I can’t eat that.  I’m on a diet.”

Madame Donna C

vinegargrl@yahoo.com