Two Girls For Five Bucks

Today, while in line at CVS, I accidentally fantasized about my dream wedding dress. It’s not my fault, “Come Away With Me” was playing on the Muzaq, and there was at least one celebrity wedding photo on the cover of each tabloid at the register…I was hypnotized. I came to when the guy behind me started yelling, and then I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I realized what I had just done. Luckily, I was immediately distracted by my ExtraCare Card statement. I only need to spend $5.01 on any John Frieda hair products to earn my reward, and can save $4 on any two Refresh Lubricant Eye Drops. So…phew…I have A LOT going on right now.

Love Always,
Daiva

I was raised at the intersection of Social Justice and Liberation Theology. (If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry. I’m still trying to figure it out.) My mother, an ex-nun, shunned manicures as toxic and petty and liked her hairstyle like she liked her shoes: Sensible. Needless to say, this stunted my ability to be effortlessly glamorous. My mother’s idea of glamour is a floral skirt set from Penny’s and Navajo earrings from New Mexico. Things that come easily for other women –flawless make-up, rigorous gym routines and well groomed body hair — are about as natural for me as playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship with an amputated leg during a tropical storm. So, I have to work a little harder.

I get by…barely.

I had to start dying my hair about a year ago. I’ve never done highlights or anything like that. Too expensive and too complicated. I was raised to keep things simple and avoid too much flair. Why worry about how you look when you could be worrying about the homeless. So, more often than not I resemble a vagrant who’s recovering from some sort of garden-variety addiction. (I am genetically predisposed to have bags under my eyes.) But over the past year, a significant amount of grey hairs have begun nesting in my thick and coarse black hair. Shriveled, wiry little bastards who have decided to frame my face.

So, I’ve had to start dying my hair.

As a result, I’m stepping it up. Slowly but surely, I’m incorporating a beauty routine into my life. I wear make-up. I whiten my teeth, I wax my brows, I try to remember to get semi-regular bikini maintenance, I got a gym membership, I get manicures before shows, I wear deodorant (no joke, used to go without) and I’m dying my hair. My mom has started dying her hair, too. It’s like we’re both coming of age together. I like to think we’re both all set with inner beauty. Paid that shit forward. Time to act like a couple of ladies…

-Cathleen

Hello!  Welcome!  Please come in, take a seat.  Can I offer you something to drink?  How about some biscuits?  Take a look around if you like.  You’re welcome to return whenever you’d like.  We’ll always be here…staring awkwardly at you with a gentle hint of desperation in our eyes.  Below you’ll see some blog postings.  They are from the archives.  If you have not read them before, please enjoy!  For our old friends, we will be updating regularly (and when we say regularly we mean weekly not yearly.)  Again, thank you for visiting.  By the way, your hair looks really nice.

Love,

Two Girls For Five Bucks

Will you pretty please be my boyfriend? I passed you on the street a few nights ago. I was walking 79 blocks home from a bridal shower, because I felt like I ate a bit too much. I was limping a little in my blue Mary Janes, as blisters had developed in the last 50 blocks. And then you appeared, walking your dog and looking so super smart. Will you please be my boyfriend? Pretty please?

love always,
Daiva

So, I turned 30 this year. It didn’t hurt physically, although I have been very bloated recently. I keep thinking I’m pregnant but realize I’m just gaining weight. (I have scheduled my very first colonic, a 10 year obsession of mine, for July 18th. I will report after the deed is done. I LOVE intestinal health!)

In the mental health department, I was pretty stable about the whole affair. After all, this is the decade of potential children, mortgages, elderly parents, horrible jobs, not getting enough sleep, losing all of your youthful ambition, losing what marginal looks you have, watching procedural crimes dramas, buying a dog, picking up dog shit, finding God, losing your freedom, eating low-fat, humping treadmills, taking calcium supplements, finding love, losing love, start drinking, quit drinking, dying your hair, eating organic, taking a meditation class, exploring the learning annex, and becoming a knitter. But I’m more than happy to become one of those homely ladies on the subway robotically creating a purple scarf from a canvas craft bag if it means I don’t have to be the person I was in my 20′s again. Our Lord and Savior, Oprah has discussed this before. In 1995, after revealing on her show that she smoked crack in her turbulent 20′s, Oprah talked about how she found comfort in her mentor, Maya Angelou: “I shared this with Maya Angelou…and you know what she said to me? It really turned my life around and I say this to you, ‘You did then what you knew how to do and when you knew better you did better.’ And I’ll never forget that.” ¹ I’ll never forget it either, Oprah. I think the big “O” and I have some similarities, if you can get past the fact that I have never smoked crack, am not a billionaire, am not the guiding light to millions of housewives across the country, have no influence on book sales or anyone else for that matter, and do not have a former poet laureate and national treasure as a mentor- if you can get past these minor details, then you can see how we all share a likeness to Her. The knowledge that Maya (John the Baptist to Oprah’s Jesus) was dropping is that we are fucking losers in our 20′s. We hate how we look, we’re afraid of being along, we want to fit in, we want to be loved, we have no clue what we really want but act like we do. “You did then what you knew how to do and when you knew better you did better.” Like, Oprah, when we mature and grow into our 30′s we know a little better. We develop a teenie bit more respect for ourselves and in turn those around us. Gossip becomes a little more benign and we use the word “wellness” much more frequently. Maybe some could accuse us of losing our sassy, tough girl edge but I would rather sip red wine at my book club then be drunk and pregnant in a gutter, wearing skinny jeans and mumbling the words to “Rehab.” If you are struggling with turning 30, just think, What Would Oprah Do? Stop smoking crack, of course, and then make more money than God.

- Cathleen Carr

¹ Jet Magazine, Jan. 30, 1995

My best friend has a four year old daughter. The three of us recently had coffee and bagels together. Her daughter and I are very close, and we had a lot to catch up on. She was telling me all about all about her tumbling class when she mentioned, “the boy she was going to marry”. Our conversation following that sentence went something like this: “Did you just say, ‘The boy you’re going to marry’?” I said this kind of quietly. I figured she had just let it slip, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. Because, I mean, you should never tell somebody about the person you have a crush on, right? They could find out! That would be terrible. “Uh-huh. I love him.” “Well…um…did you tell him that you like him?” I was sure she hadn’t, because every girl knows that you should NEVER tell a boy that you like him…right? I don’t even look at a guy if I have a crush on him. But she is only four so… “Uh-huh.” “What did you say?” Uh oh. This was worse than I thought. “I told him that I loved him.” “What did he say?” Oh dear God. Didn’t her mother teach her anything?! Telling a boy that you love him will completely ruin everything. “He said, ‘I know. I love you too.’ Will you color this with me, Daiva?” I just stared at her, stunned. As adults we make everything so complicated and vague. We don’t call someone when we so desperately want to. We text things we’re too scared to say. We try to keep our feelings hidden, not wanting to be the first one to show them…like it’s some terrible contest. If only it could be as simple as walking up to the guy you like in tumbling class and saying, “I love you.” And have him say… “I know. I love you too.” I wish I was as mature as a four year old.

Love always,
Daiva

I can’t believe I’m about to tell everybody this, but what the hell.… So ok, today I had an appointment at a salon, and this appointment involved wax. Along with the wax, this appointment involved something else, but it was not my upper lip or my eyebrows… It’s always different when I go in…sometimes less invasive, sometimes more invasive. But today…today I think I learned the true definition of the word invasive. Today, a very well dressed middle-aged Russian woman had her hands, and I’m pretty sure her face, near a place that not many people have been. I’m the kind of girl that has to be under the sheets with the lights turned off, and somehow…somehow, I’m here in a brightly lit room with Enya trickling from the speakers, lying on a table with my little red undies expertly twisted into what seems like a rubber band, as a stranger puts hot wax on a very secret part of my body…God I hate Enya. And then it occurs to me…as I’m lying there with my ankles in my hands, staring intently at the ceiling, that I have chosen this…not only have I chosen it, but I am also going to pay money for it. In my head I start screaming, “Why am I doing this! This doesn’t make any sense! I am never doing this again! OW! Get away from me!”, but on the outside I am a silent adult sized baby who looks like she’s getting her diaper changed. And the worst part is, I’m not even doing it for someone else…I am almost positive that no one but me is going to see the results of my suffering and humiliation. I have chosen to do this just for myself…and then I’m going to tip her and make an appointment for next month. Do straight men do anything like this? Are we girls just completely crazy? Please…if any of you boys read this, please tell me that there is something as equally humiliating, that you do just for the sake of vanity. The proctologist does not count…

Love always,
Daiva