A Little Mascara

This morning, after my shower and two minutes before I walked out the door, I took a moment to brush some mascara onto my eyelashes. I do this every day. My eyelashes are a light brown (or dark blonde!) and usually when I skip the process people comment on how tired I look. A little make-up goes a long way, so I make the sacrifice.

I have a very complicated relationship with make-up. I've got all sorts of thoughts about it. Some of it good, some of it, umm, not. I don't know why I've made make-up into an "issue." My mother wears it. And her mother wore it. My sister wears it. It's not like it wasn't around the house or anyone told me I shouldn't wear it because bunnies have been blinded by liquid eyeliner. It could, of course, come from those Catholic school years when we weren't able to wear any make-up at all except for Chapstick, and even then plain Chapstick over Cherry Chapstick because Cherry Chapstick was red and might rouge your lips a bit. (You're wondering if that last bits true. I'll leave it up to you to decide. But let me just qualify that I had nuns in my school.) By the time I stumbled into high school, I wasn't too sure about the make-up thing. I tried it, of course, after eight years of being told I couldn't, but the novelty quickly waned. I had acne, you see, and make-up seemed to exacerbate the situation especially as I was trying to cover it up. It felt so obvious that that was what I was doing. It wasn't awful acne, but I was a girl and any pimple was one pimple too many, so, instead, I opted out of the make-up wars and let the other girls with smoother skin give it a go. I kept thinking, "later."

When the acne finally cleared up in my twenties, I had become a wash-and-go kind of girl. I would literally wake up 30 minutes before I had to be anywhere, shower for twenty, dress and, well, here's where the mascara came in because I had to put some make-up on by now, didn't I? Then dash out the door with my hair wet. I kept a full face of make-up for special occasions. The problem was, when special occasions arose, I never felt comfortable applying the barely used Cover Girl products I kept stashed in a drawer. I knew how to apply make-up; I read enough "girly magazines" to know the proper techniques and colors for my coloring. However, it always felt "too much." Or "caked on." I didn't want to look "like a clown" (my mother's words). So I usually put on very little with the hopes that it would look natural only to get to wherever I was going to see that my friends applied a lot more and looked very good for their efforts. I assured myself, however, that when I "needed" make-up (IE, when I was "old" and ergo "unattractive"), I would do better...then.

I have to admit that I was very lucky during this time. Whenever I mentioned that I didn't wear make-up, girls would give me a literal double take and then try to get in closer for a look at my pores. Whenever I posed for WD magazine (they were infamous for using their editorial staff as models), the design editor would compliment me by saying, "I barely had to photoshop you at all." Who needed make-up? Youth was its own reward! Unfortunately, youth fades, and I woke up one morning around the age of thirty and realized that I had a sunspot on my cheek. Reality started to seep in. But, I refused to give in. I didn't need make-up. "Not yet," I kept telling myself.

This morning, during my two minute check-the-face timeout, right before dashing out the door to work, I looked at my skin. I've got another sun spot, one that I've been monitoring for awhile now. I've got two raised moles instead of the one that seemed glamorous back when I was twenty-five. There's a blotchiness to my skin tone that I never had before. I've come to the conclusion that I'm old...er. Sigh. No one is asking to take my picture any more. And if they do, there will be photoshopping, I assure you. And while I'm not wearing make-up daily, I do use the concealer stick with a light powder and some rougue on the weekends. Just to give me the kind of skin I used to have naturally. As for the heavy make-up? I still don't like it. Recently, a friend of mine -- a professional make-up artist, mind you -- "dolled [me] up" before a night on the town. I felt awkward and unnatural. And then I felt bad because she wanted that reality make-over "Wow! I never knew I could look like this!" response, and I didn't give it to her. I just couldn't. I've been made-up before (weddings comes to mind, that one afternoon at Sephora when I got wrangled into a chair thinking I would get the reality show feeling). I just don't feel like myself. I feel like, well, like I'm putting on a mask. Or, worse, warrior paint going into battle. And maybe that is the real issue of make-up for me. I've never wanted to be perceived as a fake or a fraud or a phony. I'm very big on exposing myself, warts and all, to every person who bumps into me. "This is me. Deal with it." I realize this is slightly confrontational (the word "femi-nazi" comes to mind), but the jokes about women not being confident enough to be seen without their make-up make me cringe. (Mary Kay, who never let her husband or children see her without make-up, makes me sad. Did she not like herself as God made her that she felt she had to cover up her own natural beauty? Or was that just a really committed way to selling the product? I never understood.) I mean, the beauty business is not a billion dollar industry because they make women feel good about themselves. Advertising firms are paid very good money to make women feel less-than so that they go out and buy the product to feel good-enough. That is, until the next new thing hits the market. "You thought Lash Blast was good? Wait until you see vibrating mascara! It will change your world!" To which I say, "Really? Puh-leeze."

I may never reach an age where I feel I "need" make-up. Though, I do think I'm getting closer to the age where I might start to apply at least some concealer and a light powder on a daily basis just to tame the blotchiness a bit (maybe. I mean forty is coming). At the same time, however, I'm still not to a place where I enjoy putting on a face full of make-up to make the most of my looks. My eyes could look a little bigger, a little bluer. My lips probably could stand to be a bit plumper. But it all feels one step closer to Plasticsville. I just can't seem to wrap my head around it quite yet. And maybe I don't have to. Not because I'm above such things, but because I'm coming to a place where I can accept that some women enjoy playing with make-up, and some don't. It doesn't make one less -- or more -- of a woman one way or the other. It's not a political statement. Or a statement about one's self image. Make-up is supposed to be about feeling good about yourself. So however much you use shouldn't be up to the beauty industry's standard of beauty but about how beautiful you feel when you use their product. For me, a little mascara seems to do the trick pretty well.

Workhorse

Back when I was 18, I was the Dunkin' Donuts girl. I poured coffee for harried New Englanders eager to get a caffeine jolt late in the day. I did that dirty little job, five until midnight, five days a week for five years. I was a regular ol' workhorse. I know that because my boss, Bill, described me this way to his best friend, Mark. I'll never forget standing in the bakery when he said it. "Jessica is a workhorse." Not, "Jessica is a loyal and valued worker." Not, "I trust Jessica completely." No. "Jessica is a workhorse." And he said it with a smirk. Mark smiled. (Mark, it should be disclosed, is my second cousin. If he did more than smile, I would have punched him in the gut and tattled to our grandmother.) Considering I was a teenager who was self conscious about her weight, the last thing I wanted was to be called was a Clydesdale, if you know what I mean. In my over-active imagination, my co-workers were flirty, frisky fillies, while I was the beaten down dray horse plowing the field.

Let me be frank, before that day, I actually took pride in the fact that I got the job done and did it well. But after the workhorse moniker, I wanted to quit. Seriously. I hated Bill at that moment, and, as you can tell, I'm still bitter about it eighteen years later. However, I was a workhorse, and regardless that my efforts were being mocked, I couldn't stop being one. Capable was what I was. And capable, I would continue to be.

I left Dunkin' Donuts and became a booking officer at a local police department. (Why, yes, I did go from doughnut girl to the cop shop.) If I was mocked for my industry at the restaurant, I was exploited at the PD. The problem there was that it became evident fairly quickly that if a cop wanted a job done quickly and done right, well, he called Jessica! She's that capable, conscientious little worker bee who is eager and willing to prove herself. My need to please got me so overloaded with responsibilities --from organizing the town's Open House to helping the Warrant Squad investigate felons -- that I had a mild freak out one night due to low blood sugar. I smashed my fist into a locker in the booking room after a girl tried to hook punch me. They sent me to a therapist shortly after this. "Jessica, you need to learn how to say no. Try it. Say no." Are you kidding me? Yeah, let me get right on that. Sorry, Captain, I won't help the warrant squad. Excuse me, what's that? Oh, it's part of my 'other duties as needed'? Do I want a verbal warning in my personnel file for insubordination? Umm, no? After this incident, however, I did learn the value of telling people, "I'll get to that when I can. But if its an emergency, you can speak to my sergeant about it." They never did and amazingly things still got done.

Being a workhorse in publishing is actually admired, believe it or not. Its just that you'll never get promoted or monetarily compensated for it. No, instead, you'll get threatened; reminded -- and often -- that there are at least twenty people standing right behind you who would do it better and cheaper and for longer and you should just grateful for having the job. Right. Thanks.

If I thought things would be different in TV then I would have been wrong. But, luckily, I had no expectation. After more than a decade in the work force, I've come to the keen conclusion that I am a workhorse, and workhorses are just not valued in contemporary American society. It's more important to know someone at the top and use good adjectives in your resume than it is to actually be able to complete the job that's listed in the advertisement. Give good interview, secure the job, then do just enough to not get fired. It's a Dilbert world, people. I was reminded of this today. (Because you knew this was coming from somewhere, didn't you?)

"Jessica, can you come up front?" asked the Receptionist through the intercom.

When I arrived up front, my boss was trying to place a brad into a script while his assistant just sat at her desk. Okaaay.

"I need you to cover this. Soon. But it doesn't have to be tonight," he said. Which means, he wants me to read it tomorrow and give him coverage before he leaves work tomorrow evening. Hopefully, he won't leave early. "This guy met (my boss's boss) at the 'Irena' screening and now, come to find out, this guy knows (my boss's assistant) and is hounding her about it."

Um, let me get this right: This writer was invited to our screening -- probably through my boss's assistant -- and met my boss's boss -- probably because my boss's assistant pointed him out -- and now I've got to read his bad script -- which both my boss and my boss's boss have deemed unlikely -- because my boss's assistant is being annoyed by the writer/acquaintance's persistence. Why isn't my boss's assistant reading it? Well, because regardless that the hounding is so overwhelming that she has to complain to the boss about it, the frisky filly might not get to it...so give it to the workhorse.

I used to think that if one proved oneself capable and efficient, an employer would value that and give one greater opportunities. You know. To get promoted. To get ahead. She's good, she's capable, she has the ability to go far in this company! We value her and her work ethic! However. That's not the way it works, does it? As my therapist used to say, No. Instead, what happens is the workhorse gets all the, well, work, while the frisky filly gets the opportunities. Why? People have all sorts of answers to that question, but I personally think it comes down to respect. People don't respect the guy who shines their shoes, picks up their garbage, or does the menial job they don't want to do themselves. Like reading bad scripts. It needs to be done, obviously, just not by the sexy people. The sexy people are too busy doing other, more sexy things. (I never know what, but they are always too busy doing it to make their own copies.) And, let's be honest, one would never hook up their Arabian to a plow, would they? No. But a Clydesdale is just made for plow pulling, now isn't it? It gets the job done. It's capable, sturdy, efficient. It's a workhorse. We appreciate the job the Clydesdale does, we just don't respect him for it.

While I resisted it back when I was 18, I'm just now coming to irrefutable conclusion that I am a Clydesdale. And while the frisky fillies will fail upward to become CEOs, the best I can hope for is stay healthy and not get shot in the field.

Family Myth

"You realize that that is a book waiting to happen?" My therapist said last night.

"Yeah, I know. My family actually wants me to write it," I answered uneasily. "But I don't think they understand that they won't come off so well. Plus, it's really difficult to write it. I mean, do I go linear? Or use flashbacks to fill in the voids? And, *sigh*, I don't even know what's real! At the end of the day, it's more like a Tolstoy novel than a memoir."

I was trying to talk about my dad, but in order for my dad to be understood, I always feel like I have to go back to his dad. And in order for his dad to be understood, you've got to go back to his dad. Luckily, at that point, the stories get a little fuzzy so Great Grandpa Callahan's legacy is diluted as far as my psyche goes. The single story that does get passed down on Carleton Callahan involves a physically abusive alcoholic, a Christmas tree, and teenage sons lying in wait. If you have an alcoholic in your family, you know how that one ends. I bring these things up in therapy more as a breadcrumb trail for my therapist than an excavation of my troubled past. Except, after leaving my session last night, I started to think more about the Callahan Clan and how I feel burdened by their history. However, somewhere near UCLA, it hit me that I didn't know the Callahan history as much as I knew the family lore. The stories that have been handed down to me by an older generation. Stories that were handed down to them from people who were supposedly eye witnesses. At which point my former cop turned to my former editor and said, "Eyewitness accounts are unreliable. Where does the truth end and the fiction begin?" My former editor answered, "You can't fact check any of this. The participants are all dead. These are oral narratives."

Ahh, storytelling! Now, we're talking. When I was younger, I equated my love of story with my love for books. But! I also loved television and movies. And I loved a good recounting of a dramatic family vacation. I even loved gossip as long as there was a beginning, a middle, and an end. I considered all these loves separate identities. Different boyfriends, if you will. But I've recently realized that they weren't separate boyfriends, just different facets of the same boyfriend, and his name is Narrative. Now, I'm beginning to wonder if this love of narration comes from the family that enjoys telling a good story in the guise of a melodramatic family history. (Did I mention these folks are Irish? Hmm...)

Once I took the personal involvement out of the equation, I was able to hear the stories in a new way. They really were quite interesting. Like the one about my Great Grandmother Mary coming from Italy as a poor orphan, put into a Catholic convent, adopted by her much older sister, impregnanted by an Irishman then married to a widower. This is the stuff great literature! Or the very least, a good beach read! Instead of feeling burdened by these crazies, I felt excited about them. Hey, I can make some money off of these people! And suddenly, they were all forgiven. Every single one of them. Thearpy. Good for psyche. Good for the wallet.

Five Year Plan

I still haven't gotten over the fact that I live in California and not in the great Northeast. And I'm still resistant to the idea that I might always live here. I don't want to, I whine. But since I no longer know what I want, this adversity might just be a cranky-baby, knee jerk reaction. I no like California! Of course, I no liked New York, Hoboken, Manchester, Newington, or Bristol (and I knocked Seattle out of the running before even visiting). So, this might just be a reoccurring theme. And maybe -- and I'm just throwing it out there -- my issues with California are not really with California. Maybe, just maybe, my issues are a bit more internal.

I keep trying to parse out exactly what I do want out of my life, but I'm coming up empty handed at every turn. Do I want to get married? Umm, OK. But my desire to get married is more about a fear of growing old alone and never having that connection with somebody. I want a travel partner, a confidante, and a guy attractive enough to have sex with occasionally. Seriously, that's all I want out of marriage. Throw in a good conversationalist with a playful sense of humor, and I will have won the lottery. Do I want to have kids? Yeah, that'd be nice. But Lord knows why anyone truly wants a child. The reasons run from biological need to "I just want to know what it would look like." I'm somewhere in the middle. Do I want to win an Academy Award or run a business? Sigh. Shrug. Maybe. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't. Whatever. Not the end of the world.

Let me just admit right now that this blase attitude of mine is freaking me the hell out. I've always thought of myself as a directed and ambitious person. I've spent the majority of my life with a five year life plan. My thinking was, "Get in, get it done, and see how you like it." Cop? Sure. Six years later, I was in New York publishing. Five years after that, I'm in television in Los Angeles. I should have called it the "Five Years Then Out" plan. Because I'd get bored with whatever I was doing at the end of the five years, re-evaluate, tear it up, and peel out of town once again. But that 17-year old girl who swore a blood oath that she was breaking out of her hometown and setting the world ablaze has turned into a 36-year old who can't be bothered to strike the match any more. I blame therapy. I'm no longer mad at God, or my parents, or myself, so I've lost the energy to destroy any and all who get in my way. You wanna pass me? Go right ahead. Let me know what it looks like from the top of the corporate ladder, at the end of the aisle, in the maternity ward. I'll get there when I get there. Maybe. If I don't? Eh.

So, if I don't want to live anywhere in particular, or get married, or have a kid, or own my own business/win an Oscar, what do I want? I don't know, and the question is killing me! It's as if these are the only options. Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure novels that were big in the 80s? I feel like I'm living in one of those. But I've read all the adventures and I'm kinda disappointed in the way they all end, so... why bother? I'd like something different. But I'm beginning to think there isn't anything different. I'm beginning to realize that there are just small differences in how we choose to get married, have kids, or navigate a career. The existential angst of the midlife crisis -- Is this all there is?! -- is hitting me at 36. And if I'm asking that question now (with a deep abiding fear that the answer is Yes) then I'm in trouble ten years from now. Of course, ten years is two five year plans. Or Med School. Dr. Callahan? Hmm.... Maybe. Sigh. Maybe not.

The Raft

A friend sent me this recently. It was from her Chinese philosophy class:

Suppose a man were traveling along a path. He sees a great expanse of water, with the near shore dubious and risky, the further shore secure and free from risk, but with neither a ferryboat nor a bridge going from this shore to the other. The thought would occur to him, 'What if I were to gather grass, twigs, branches, and leaves and, having bound them together to make a raft, were to cross over to safety on the other shore with the raft, making an effort with my hands and feet?' So the man gathered grass, twigs, branches,and leaves, and bound them together to make a raft. He crossed over safely to the other shore using the raft by propelling it with his hands and feet. Upon reaching the further shore, he might think, 'How useful this raft has been to me! Why don't I, having hoisted it on my head or carrying on my back, go wherever I like?' What do you think, monks: Would the man, in doing that, be doing what should be done with the raft?"

"No, lord." replied the monks.

The moral of the story is to dump the raft because there is nothing in life worth clinging to - especially the past or that rocky shore that you are leaving behind. There is also a message about the sacrifices we will have to make in the name of spiritual living and the seeking of enlightenment. Sometimes there are easier ways and we need to learn to keep things in proper perspective so we aren't swept away with the illusory attraction of suffering.

So, why am posting this and what were the friend and I talking about that would prompt this philosophical lesson? We were talking about the tools one collects to survive their childhood and how those tools can sometimes hinder us in our adult years. We hold onto the hammer and the wrench, regardless that what we might really need is a screwdriver and a saw. But instead of trading the hammer and the wrench for a screwdriver and a saw, we try to make the hammer and the wrench do the same work as a screwdriver and a saw. "If I just use this back and hack a away, then I can...goddammit! Why isn't this working?!"

I'm a Catholic. Let's just put that out there. I went to Catholic school. And regardless that I've sorted through a lot of the dogma to pull out the bits I like best and disregarded those that I think are a bit too man-made, I've been brainwashed to believe that suffering is for the best. That if you suffer enough, then God will reward you. You have to give and give and give, and then someday, when God has decided that you've given enough, He will just hand over your heart's desire. When I think about the Old Testament suffering that the Jews did under genocidal maniacs, and Christians did under the Romans, you can see how this might have appealed back in the day. They weren't giving as much as everything was being taken away. But when a girl is living in contemporary America, the land of plenty, suffering feels more self-inflicted than external. I feel like I'm choosing to suffer versus enduring suffering at the hands of some overlord bent on my destruction. Catholics are big on this self flagellation and extreme asceticism to reach God. We believe in it to a degree, despite that only zealots practice it. And while I don't consider myself a zealot, I've been practicing a bit of both flagellation and asceticism in the hopes of being worthy of something bigger and better. But I'm beginning to think that I need to put the cat-o-nine-tails down and slowly step away, because it ain't working.

I spent my entire childhood looking at the adults standing above me and silently thinking to myself, "Please, Jesus, don't let me make the mistakes these people have." Drug addiction, teen pregnancy, alcoholism, shot gun weddings, suffering silently in an abusive marriage, high drama divorce, et cetera, et cetera. My plan, since the age of six, was to escape to Hollywood. Why? Well, because Hollywood is the place where make-believe becomes reality. If I could dream it, it could happen in Hollywood.

I could go off on a tangent about how Hollywood is all glamour -- in the old school use of the word -- but this post isn't about how L.A. has "let me down." Afterall, it's not Hollywood's fault that I came with an unrealistic expectation of it's magical prowess. But it's about the things I did in order to be different from my family. I didn't want to be a pregnant teen, so I gained weight, wore men's clothes, and cut off my hair. I didn't want to get married and shackle myself to a man who would keep me in Connecticut, so I dated inappropriate men in my twenties. I didn't want to have a baby out of wedlock, so I stopped having sex. In fact, in my quest to "not be like them", I denied myself a lot and kept moving. But I believed that by sacrificing love and commitment, I was courting favor with the Big Guy Upstairs and that I would be rewarded for it with lots of money, some glory, maybe a little fame, and an Oscar. Not only would I be different, but I would be superior! I would be favored by God...and the Academy!

Yeah...that didn't really work out the way I hoped, and to be honest, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I believed that this is the way the world -- and God -- worked. But these are tools that got me through childhood and to where I am today. A pretty successful human being for the most part. However, I don't need them any more. And while I'm ready to put away "childish things", now what? I've got some ideas. I know what I'd like to do or at least have next. But it feels like a great big mountain is in front of me....and I'm sitting here with a raft.