This eyeshadow look is from The North section of my Urban Decay Game of Thrones kit which has been my fav morning ritual this past week. The colors– Take the Black; White Walker; Frozen North; Free Folk. Could you just DIE?!?
You can watch me losing my mind over it, in the video below. As I spent precious moments letting my inner procrastinator run free and breaking every makeup rule for women over 50, I thought: Where does this makeup fetish come from?
It’s cousin Marie, she of the orange fluffy hair and full face of color and Cousin Ginger with the potty mouth and braying laugh. The rest of the women in my Italian American family didn’t wear a stitch of color on their faces–except Cousin Marie and Cousin Ginger. Ginger wore skintight leopard pants and kept a picture of Dean Martin in their redone basement party room that she would kiss on the way down the stairs. And black eyeliner thick as her Jersey accent. I’m pretty sure Cousin Marie was my Uncle Sal’s goumad but don’t quote me on that. I’m afraid of Uncle Sal. You should be, too.
The other women cooked and cleaned. Cousin Ginger and Cousin Marie were mouthy. They seemed to be able to rib the men in the family with abandon. The others seemed to only serve them. I used to tell Cousin Ginger–I want you as my Matron of Honor in my wedding. She’d say, “Aww, you’re sweet honey, c’mere,” and then wetly buss my cheek.
When I became a hippie chick the other hippie chicks wanted me to stop wearing makeup. I’d create Broadway Cats looks for Dead shows.
“Don’t you know you’re beautiful without that?”
“That’s what THEY want you to do to fit in.”
The real message: “I’m sorry you’re so insecure you buy into this anti-feminist bullshit.”
What about creativity? What about the big “fuck you” of the red lip, the cat eye–my armor, my fighting words without saying a word. I’m owning my tropes, thank you very much. Painted hussy. Mouthy Mama. The kind of woman who as a girl took my brother’s laundry he left outside my door and threw it back on his bed in revolt (my sister did his laundry anyway. She took it off his bed before he could take it up with me).
When my company was taking off, I made extra money working at the Clinique counter at Macys. I loved it except not when we had to work Christmas hours round the clock. At 3 a.m. Black Friday Eve, my manager came by (the store was both bereft and rife for my horror-writer imagination, the evil splash of fluorescents, etc., etc.,) and told me I had to stand up in case any customers came in. I quit soon after. Come to think of it, she hardly wore any makeup at all.
Finally, a bit from Ms. Courtney Love: “Oh make me over, I’m all I wanna be, a walking study in demonology.” I always liked her. From all accounts, she’s awful. I’m into it.