Sometimes the skies are too friendly

My Flypaper for Freaks moments are not just restricted to my dating life. I emit  a pheromone that freaks sniff out like the aroma of fresh-baked cookies. I fear that I am irresistible to them. One of their favorite places to accost me is on  airplanes. Who knows why. Maybe because I'm buckled into a confined space  and can't escape? Par example, when flying home from a business trip on the west coast, we stopped  in Denver. Everyone on the plane, except me, disembarked. I was the lone soul continuing on to the great metropolis of Clevesburg. Being that I was flying Festival Airlines (Southwest – which I call Festival Airlines for its free-for-all festival seating policy), I was free to choose a new seat – preferably one with plenty of leg room. I had my choice of any seat on the plane! As a bonus, the flight attendant had informed me that the flight was only half full, so the chances of one of the unwashed masses sitting directly next to me in a middle seat was low. My internal jukebox started playing a joyful tune that went something like, “Happy days are here again ….” Where to sit? Where to sit? I mused. Then I espied MY seat. It was the seat right by the window in an aisle where the rows of seats faced each other. I've never been on a plane before with facing rows, but, hey, lots of leg room, so it worked for me. I usually pick the window seat when possible. I find that looking out the window discourages strangers from talking to me and, unlike the aisle, there are no service carts bumping your elbow or people brushing up against you. I settled in with a sigh of contentment and started reading my book again while “happy days” continued to hum softly through my brain. I hear the shuffle of footsteps and didn't even bother to look up. I mean, who gets on an empty plane and sits next to the ONLY other person on the plane … in a middle seat? I mean, who'd do that … … … Yuppers. First person on the plane sits DIRECTLY next to me. And her four friends fill in the seats around me. There are now six people, including me, on the plane and they are all sitting within touching distance of me. What the Hell??? Who does that? The woman who sat next to me is now leaning on “our” armrest and peering expectantly at me. <SIGH> I look up and give her one of my best, closed-mouth, “nice-to-meet-you, please-don't-talk-to-me” half smiles and she lays her hand on my arm and says, “Sister, have you accepted Jesus into your life?” Why isn't the window high enough for me to bang my forehead on it? The happy tune in my head has now changed to the theme song from “Just Shoot Me.” She and her friends spend the rest of the flight to Clevesburg trying to “save” my blackened soul. They also told me ALL ABOUT the religious conference they attended in the Denver area.  How come I can blurt out the most appalling things at the most inappropriate times,  but I couldn't muster the gumption to say, “I practice black magic and like to hex  people who talk to me about Jesus.”? Hmmm? Is it because the polite part of me is  pretty good at stifling the bawdy, loudmouth who occasionally peeps her head out? I MUST have been Lizzie Borden in my past life and I am now atoning for my sins one freak at a time.

This ain't your momma's thong

Sometimes, we get a product that strikes me as so ridiculous, I have to get my immature, giggling-schoolgirl, knee-jerk reaction down onto paper before I can even try to write serious copy about it. I had one of those moments today when they handed me the “Belly Busting Thong” to write. Here was my first crack at copy: This ain't your momma's thong Don't let a little tummy pooch prevent you from wearing sexy panties. The Belly Busting Thong is just like an 80s mullet – all business in the front and a party in the back. The double tummy panel provides medium control to a less-than-delicious muffin top. Detailed in pretty European lace. Cool, silky fabric. Machine wash. S-XL. Black-12, Nude-80. Belly Busting Thong #095660 $28 [callout] reinforced stomach panel for extra tummy squashing Naturally proud of my immaturity, I presented the copy with childish glee to the buyer to review. I didn't tell her it was a joke. In retrospect, I probably should have. She tried proofing it while on the phone with a vendor. She tried to turn her laughing fit into a coughing fit and just ended up choking. The unsuspecting vendor asked her if she was all right. Now that I got that out of my system, I *might* be able to write it up. Hell, who am I kidding? I still snicker every time I look at the name. I'm not going to grow up in the next 5 minutes (or 5 years, for that matter). I should probably just use the vendor's supplied copy.

A Model of Beauty

Have you ever gazed enviously (or longingly) at the model in a magazine and thought, “Wow I wish I looked like her!” Well, I've got news for you, so does she. I work for a company that hires models on a regular basis and they are gorgeous! Genetic freaks that are almost 6' tall, weigh in the neighborhood of 120, have 24” waists, natural C-cups and don't look overly thin or bony. They were at the front of the line (twice!) when God was handing out genetic blessings. But, even with all of that going for them, we still do a shocking amount of Photoshopping to their pictures – and that's AFTER we've had them professionally coiffed, made-up, dressed and spray tanned. With the whisk of a Photoshop tool, we thin the model's thighs, trim her waist, whiten her teeth, smooth her crow's-feet, thicken her hair and even out her spray-tanned skin tone. She already has living Barbie Doll proportions that we make even more pronounced. Advertisements are selling a fairy tale. They imply that you, too, could look this good if you just buy their product …. and have a team office professionals make you over, take your picture and touch it up extensively. These models already have virtually unattainable beauty and proportions. Why would we take the virtually unattainable and make it physically impossible? Does it motivate anyone to strive for those standards? Or does it just make women feel badly about themselves and make men want something that doesn't exist anywhere but the pages of a magazine?

All Hail the Freakishly Pale

Let’s get one thing straight - I am not a circus freak. “Come one! Come all! Step right up and see the world’s shortest man! The boy with two heads! The woman who cannot tan!”

I keep hearing that tanning is “out,” just like leg warmers and mullets. Yet, you wouldn’t know this to go shopping for makeup. Store makeup shelves are lined with dozens of foundations for women with a “healthy” glow. Just try and find a foundation that works on “alabaster” (that’s a code word for pasty white) skin.

The Non-Pigment Challenged have colors to choose from like “honey tan,” “sun-kissed” and “bronzed.” Genetic Sun Repellants like myself are stuck with alabaster, ivory or bisque. Well, that’s just great! So, I can wear Plaster of Paris, dead animal tusk or cream soup on my face. How appealing.

I tried (and the key word is tried) to have my makeup done for a friend's wedding recently, only to be told “we’re sorry, you’re just too pale. We don't have any makeup for you.” ?! Why don’t you just post a sign outside of the spa that says “no redheads or blondes”? Pardon me, natural blondes.

The lightest color the salon had was “medium tan.” I couldn’t use that after a month of applying bronzer. What gives? The makeup artist sympathetically told me, “we’re accustomed to people tanning in the summer.” Well pardon me for being half Transylvanian vampire! We only like to go out at night.

I thought nothing more of my wedding makeup misfortune until I tried to buy some cosmetics over the weekend. To escape the sweltering, dripping heat, I went to my favorite old-money mall for some sticker shock and “because-I’m-worth-it” makeup. I found exactly the shade I was looking for (bonus!) in an oil-free, non-comodegenic, spf-15, “guaranteed-to-make-you-look-like-Nicole-Kidman” foundation. I put the sample down and reached simultaneously for my almost maxed credit card and the Magic Miracle in a bottle. Too bad there wasn’t any. Nor was there even a place on the shelf for it. So, I asked the hovering, overly chipper sales clerk about it. What do I know? Maybe they keep it in the Albino Only* Drawer.

Oh, the sales clerk informs me sadly, they don’t actually carry that shade in stock. They apparently just keep it around to torment those of us who would actually buy it. 

I think I’ve come to the crux of the issue. I’m chasing the Holy Grail of the makeup world: light, non-chalky, spf-15+ foundation. It’s much like the other Holy Grail I seek: the comfortable, costs-less-than-a-car-payment, underwire bra. Yeah, I’ll be finding that soon . . . right next to my Creamy Oatmeal Sun Missed foundation.

             

*No albinos were deliberately offended in the writing of this blog.

An explanation

One of my friends mentioned that I should explain why my Blog is called "Flypaper for Freaks". It stems from my belief that I AM Flypaper for Freaks. I attract "freaks" the way honey attracts bees. Lemme give you a few "freak magnet" examples . . . .

1. I was in New Orleans on business out for a drink with two co-workers. I told my co-workers that under no circumstances were they to leave me alone at the table because, if they did, a freak would sit down with me. The male co-worker laughed when I said this, the female co-worker confirmed my assertion. You know, of course, that they both deserted me. It took about, oh, five seconds for a man to sit down with me. He told me I was pretty then started talking about all kinds of crazy stuff (like aliens). He was ranting and raving and using some words that I think he made up. The male co-worker returned and made him leave.

2. My former belly dance troupe was walking up an down the streets of Coventry -- an eclectic Cleveland neighborhood -- handing out fliers for an upcoming performance. A woman started following me through the neighborhood. Every time I stopped, she would put her head on my shoulder and sigh. No matter what I said to her, she would not respond to me in any way or look at me. It was such odd behavior, that it almost seemed like she was doing a performance art piece or was part of the Candid Camera staff. I asked her to leave me alone several times to no avail. My very large male friend finally made her leave.

3. In Chicago on business, I was riding on an escalator with my co-worker when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. I expected her to ask me the time or for directions. Instead, she said, "my husband just died" then launched into the sad story of his passing and cried on my shoulder. She hugged me and went on her merry way. She was definitely the least odd of my "freak" collection, but it still made me wonder. Why do these people approach me? Most people tell me I'm intimidating at first glance. So, why do I not intimidate the more unusual types in society? What kind of strange vibe do I send out?

That is but a taste of the more unique characters I attracts, seemingly unwittingly. I used to also attract stalkers, but I haven't had one for awhile, which is great. Maybe it's because I am getting older, but who cares what the reason is? Three stalkers in one lifetime is plenty IMHO. Come to think of it, though, if I've managed to lose my stalker vibe, maybe I can also lose my "freak magnet" vibe. It's worth pondering . . . .