No Frills Women Too

I am not wearing any makeup today, because I wore enough on Tuesday for a month. A nice makeup artist named Mario gave me a "natural" look for my 4 1/2 hours of back-to-back TV appearances, which required about a quarter inch of foundation and so much mascara that astronauts could probably see my eyelashes from space. And yet, on TV, it really did look natural. At my kids' piano lessons later that day, however, I looked like Tammy Faye Baker disguised as a soccer mom.

About an hour into my satellite media tour (where you stand in front of a TV camera in a studio and talk to anchors you can't see) I realized that the one-piece bra-underpants thingy I had bought to smooth out my post-baby/surgery belly, while helpful, was really nothing more than a giant onesie with tummy control. And so, I got the giggles -- in the bathroom. And then I hoped that my mic wasn't still on.

And so, I went on TV in places like San Diego and Minneapolis and Tyler, Texas, looking way, way better than I do today, and way, way less comfortable. My onesie is in the wash, and my eyelashes have receded to their natural state.

I am no longer allowed to maintain my eyebrows. And by "maintain," I mean randomly pluck at them with tweezers while cursing and wishing we could all go back to the Brooke Shields look circa 1985, back when big ole caterpillar-looking eyebrows were in, and I had no idea women even plucked them at all.

At the hair salon the other day, I was lead to a back room designed to look like a spa, but really, it's where the Eyebrow Lady inflicts pain on you -- and then you tip her handsomely for it. You don't want to piss off the Eyebrow Lady. She's got hot wax.

So the Eyebrow Lady took one look at my attempt to grow back in what was left of my eyebrows after I let another not-at-good Eyebrow Lady practically rip them off my head completely -- just in time for my TV tour.

The Eyebrow Lady shook her head and tsked, tsked me. At least, that's what I think she was saying. Do they "tsk tsk" in Korean? Or is that a curse word for them?

Anyhow, she looked over my eyebrows and sighed a lot, much like a contractor who's got to fix a crooked wall that some other contractor left behind, running off with the homeowner's money and pride.

She waxed and she plucked, and then she warned me: "Don't touch eyebrow. Come back next haircut."

At first, I was insulted. Then, I felt freed. I don't have to maintain my eyebrows anymore! Somebody else will do it!

Hmmmm. Is there a Leg Shaving Lady? Oh, the possibilities!

"I saw you on 'The Today Show!'" My well meaning neighbor was trying to congratulate me for my recent appearance, not on the Today Show, but on the local New York City news when I presented, "Are You a Mom-aholic?" She smiled and blurted, "You looked really good!" with the kind of surprised tone one might use if a friend won large sums of money or, perhaps, a Grammy.

I guess compared to how I looked that day at Staples while buying my kids' school supplies, my TV appearance was quite a step up for me. After all, I had no make-up artist to fill in my eyebrows and apply some powder to my nose before I headed down the Folders and Binders aisle.

And yet here I was, impressed with myself for putting on lipstick before leaving my mini-van... before Hurricane Ernesto matted down my hair, fogged up my eyeglasses and drenched my Boston University Women's Soccer sweatshirt.

I suppose I could put in more effort now that so many people have seen what I look like "cleaned-up." Or maybe, if I get famous enough, the papparazzi will never find me, because I don't look anything like I look on TV.

Yesterday, I discovered that old lady underpants will show if you wear pants called, "extreme low rise." By old lady underpants, I mean pink GAP panties that, 10 years ago, would be considered, "low cut," but today are known as "dorky."

I'd like to say that I had no business at my age wearing American Eagle Outfitters "extreme low rise" gaucho jeans, except that they're so darn comfortable. They let my, uh, "baby zone," relax without being hindered by a waist that digs in when you sit down. It's sort of the same theory as football fan's beer gut resting atop his Levi's, only on a smaller scale.

I realize that's not what American Eagle Outfitters had in mind when they designed the pants. Judging by the screaming post-Green Day music blasting from their sound system, I'd say that these pants are for 20-year-olds with flat abs and enough hips that to hold up something with "extreme" in its title while leaving a gap of skin under their belly shirts.

There certainly was no intended gap between my shirt and pants, but when I was riding my bike to the gas station where my car was being fixed, my kids behind me on their bikes had a view of my underpants' waist-band which read, "GAP GAP GAP GAP GAP GAP."

I'd apologize, but I was so darned comfortable.

I just wanted a hat that covers my face better than the baseball cap I usually wear. So, while I was on vacation at the Jersey Shore, I bought one. Little did I know that it would be the debut of my (fleeting) celebrity.

I didn't think there was anything particularly special about the hat. I was light pink -- I figured I'd ruin a white one. And it had a wide brim, so it would provide the best sun coverage short of a sombrero. I thought it made me look like I should be picking coffee beans in the hot Columbian sun, but apparently not. Apparently, it made me look like someone famous.

The first morning I put on my hat, my family said nothing about it. It matched my pink swimsuit, so I guess I looked more put-together than usual. I left our vacation rental and walked up to the Wa-Wa, a convenience store where I'd bought my New York Times every morning.

I slid on my oversized black sunglasses and headed up the street. Along the way, however, people stopped in their tracks. "Good morning!" they cheered, even though they'd given me barely a grunt the previous mornings. "Hello!" they shouted from bicycles.

Men opened doors for me. Women stepped aside and apologized. Someone let me cut in line at the store.

I was the belle of the Wa-Wa.

On my way home, I nearly jumped out of my sandals when a man I hadn't seen sitting in his car bellowed, "Well, hello there!"

And that's when it hit me: They think I'm someone famous hiding under my giant hat and dark sunglasses. Maybe they guessed that I'd performed at a concert in Atlantic City the night before and was taking a quiet day at the beach. Maybe they thought I was one of the "Desperate Housewives" actresses, stepping out without bodyguards.

All I know is that the next morning, when I wore my baseball cap to the Wa-Wa, nobody looked my way. And yet, when I wore the pink hat again -- this time with a black swimsuit -- nobody seemed to notice. Except my family, that is. It made it easier for them to find me on the beach.

You know you're a No Frills Woman when your friends compliment you -- with a tone of surprise usually reserved for, say, winning at Bingo -- on your pedicure and new sandals. (Payless, 16 bucks.)

Throw on a new sweater or, dare I say, some earrings, and you're the supermodel of the bunch.

Gone are the days when you can just pop into a Gap, buy a t-shirt in Medium, buy it and go home, secure in the knowledge that the t-shirt will fit, and not, say, expose your breasts to an alarmed husband who happens upon you as you're changing into the new shirt.

My policy is, and always has been, never to try on t-shirts, especially Gap t-shirts. My thinking is that the Large, except for those few years after childbirth, is generally too baggy, and well, I've never been accused of being Small.

And so, I whipped through the Gap the other day for a few summer t-shirts without trying anything on. I even dared to buy a pair of shorts -- in numbered sizes with a clasp -- without ducking into the fitting room with them, and yet they fit fine.

The v-neck t-shirt, however, doesn't fit, unless perhaps I'm getting a job at Hooters. I can't even sleep in that thing, lest my sons come to my bedside at night and get a lesson on the birds and bees we can all do without, thank you very much.

And so, the t-shirt ruined not just my #1 policy of never trying on t-shirts, but also my #2 policy: Never return t-shirts. Here's my new #3 policy: Don't speed-shop at the Gap.