When It's NOT The Thought That Counts

Many times in my life, more than I would like to admit, I have found myself at an important place of decision making. This place is an intersection, where cluelessness meets good intentions. At this intersection should be a sign that reads "It's NOT The Thought That Counts."

I venture to guess you have found yourself there as well. The way we all arrive at this place is by wanting to do something good for someone else, but not having the slightest idea what that good thing might be or how to do it. That’s when good intentions go awry, like the person who tried to perform a random act of kindness by baking a cake and leaving it on her neighbor’s porch as a surprise. The family dog discovered the cake instead and ate it, becoming terribly ill. Not only that, but the dog required an emergency trip to the vet, stomach pumping, intravenous fluids, and an overnight stay. The total bill for this random act of baking kindness was about $500.00.

So it was with a random act of baking kindness I performed many years ago when I was a young bride. We had just bought our first house that summer and not long after the move learned that a neighbor two doors from us had died. She was an older woman who lived with her daughter, and although we had never met either of them, I decided it would be a neighborly gesture to bake a loaf of pumpkin bread to be shared with visitors stopping by to express their condolences.

When I think of pumpkin bread what comes to mind is Thanksgiving and Christmas and large groups of people eating as though they are preparing for three months in hibernation. Pumpkin and fall are as linked together as watermelon and summer. Pumpkin bread is not a food you typically associate with barbecues, picnics, and high temperatures in the 90s.

Nevertheless, armed with my new Betty Crocker cookbook, a can of pumpkin in the pantry, and all the requisite spices, I eagerly set about the task ahead of me. This poor grieving neighbor whose name I did not know would at least know a measure of comfort that only Betty herself could bring.

As I emptied the can of pumpkin into the mixture of eggs, sugar, butter, flour, and assorted spices, something troubled me. A slight metallic scent permeated the air. Had the pumpkin gone bad? Nonsense, I told myself. Canned goods last for at least a year. This particular can of pumpkin had been purchased no more than eight months ago. It was fine.

The odor continued to bother me as I mixed the batter. I decided that if it still didn’t smell right I would throw it out and not even bake the bread. The last thing I wanted was to present a toxic gift to a grieving neighbor.

And so, without turning off the mixer, I leaned down to catch a whiff. In a moment I felt the sensation of a beater pressed against my face and a motor vibrating next to my head. Apparently the mixer had grabbed a lock of my hair and wasn’t letting go.

The sensation of a motor-powered beater yanking my scalp was not unlike what I imagine a facelift might feel like. My skin was being pulled so tightly I could barely move my lips to call for help.

Help arrived, and together we untwisted the lock of hair that had become tangled in the beater. A triangle of smooth white flesh appeared over my ear where the hair used to be. There was no blood and no injuries - just wounded pride over making such a silly, preventable mistake. Of course I tossed the batter. Later I baked a batch of cookies. Without using the mixer.

I learned many lessons from this incident. But the one that has stuck with me the longest is this: when you find yourself at the intersection of good intentions and cluelessness, it really isn't the thought that counts. A good intention that goes awry can create as much havoc as a practical joke. If you want to express sympathy do what we do here in the suburbs and send a thoughtful note, perhaps with a gift card enclosed. It's practical and unlike a random act of baking kindness, there's little possibility of injuring either yourself or someone else.

Pigmentally Challenged

When I was a scrawny adolescent in a hurry to become the Person I Was Meant To Be, I wanted in the worst way to look like the shapely bikini-clad models in the tanning lotion commercials.

They promised a transformation from washed-out wallflower to bronzed beauty in just a few short hours. After many afternoons of dutifully dragging my beach towel, transistor radio, and a large glass of Diet-Rite outdoors I understood something that the good folks at Coppertone had neglected to mention: some people, no matter how long they lie in the sun, will never get the deep, dark tan portrayed by those fun-loving, beach-cavorting youth.

No, some of us are pigmentally challenged. We can’t, and we shouldn’t, lie out in the sun. Because we now know that a tan is your skin’s reaction to the sun’s damaging rays, and that when you get to be a middle-aged adult like me the cumulative effect of all that sun will be to look like a leather boot.

Today I wouldn’t dream of lying in the sun to get a tan. In addition to the health hazards, there’s far too much perspiration involved. But I do like to wear shorts when it’s hot. That’s where tan-in-a-bottle comes in. Those same good folks at Coppertone have made it easy for the pigmentally challenged to achieve a surfer’s sun-kissed look merely by applying sunless tanning lotion.

The trick is not to over or under apply. This advice has proven to be much more difficult to follow. Which is why my bathroom cabinet has become a warehouse for multiple bottles of various brands of sunless tanning lotion and spray.

Bottle #1: Was purchased prior to the Habitat for Humanity Build I participated in last month on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I thought if I could just get a little color on my legs and arms I wouldn’t look so much like Boo Radley. Following the directions I showered, shaved, and exfoliated. Three hours later, I applied the lotion to what was left of my skin. The bottle guaranteed that this product was streak-free.

The next morning I woke up and was horrified to see that, far from the outdoorsy “Survivor” contestant image I was hoping to project, my legs resembled that of a café awning, with stripes in varying shades of skin tone. Not only that, but the tanning lotion made every light freckle much darker, so that I appeared to have a skin disease to go along with my stripes.

Bottle #2: Undaunted, I was ready to try again a few weeks later after the first fake tan of summer had faded. This time I purchased a bottle of self-tanning mist that promised a 360 degree continuous spray and ultra-even application. I just knew I was going to wake up with legs like a tennis player’s.

Instead, I resembled a brindled cow. I could see large circular patches of color with gaps of pale skin in between. The color was beautiful, it just wasn’t consistent.

Bottle #2, Attempt #2: Over the weekend I decided to give the self-tanning mist another try. Reasoning that I had learned much from my mistakes I optimistically applied the mist in one steady spray up and down my legs without stopping.

I had never seen anything go so horribly wrong. Apparently gravity forced the steady spray I had applied so carefully to collect in a runny pool on the back of my heels, causing a discoloration that looked like I’d had an accident with a can of Krylon. And despite my attempts to cover every square inch from the knees on down, I had still missed some spots.

Perhaps I should join other pigmentally challenged people who embrace their paleness. After all, it’s the way God made us. Still, I’m not ready to give up. I understand Coppertone has a new product out. It’s called “Endless Summer Gradual Tan.” Better yet, one reviewer says it’s dummy-proof.

Summer Fun

If my last post seemed critical of moms who want their children to do more than sit in front of the tv all summer long, I did not properly convey my sentiments. I am all for kids being able to think creatively and explore new worlds without having to worry about report cards. You and I know that some parents do go a bit overboard, though, failing to balance activities with down time. The end result is that the whole family can get to be pretty cranky, which leads to some pretty joyless memories.

The fact is, I, too, enjoyed many varying summer activities during my childhood, including classes in Journalism, Public Speaking, Typing, and German at Adams Elementary. To get to school, we carpooled with a neighborhood family. The mother drove a beat-up station wagon and the kids looked as though they had just gotten out of bed, tousled hair and sheet imprints still on their faces. When they pulled up in our driveway, and this is the truth, they were still eating breakfast.

I don’t mean noshing on a few Cheerios from a Tupperware container the way little kids do at church; when I say cereal I mean the full meal deal. By the time they got to our house what was left in the bowl was curdling milk and a few pieces of soggy Lucky Charms that had ceased to be magically delicious. My sister and I rode silently, our teeth clenched and our bodies plastered against the doors to limit the surface area that could potentially be exposed to airborne sour milk if Mrs. S drove too quickly over the railroad tracks. It seemed like so much work to take the bowls out to the car, eat, and then figure out how to dispose of the remaining cereal and milk when all this family needed to do was just wake up ten minutes earlier and eat breakfast at home.

For several years my summer activities included swimming. Based on the number of lessons I took I should be able to do much more than dog paddle from one end of the pool to the other, but sadly, swimming just didn’t take. Even as a kid I was so nearsighted that taking out my contacts in order to swim meant that I could barely distinguish people, let alone those long ropes that demarcate the swim lanes. Once I actually swam under the rope and ended up in a different lane without knowing it. The coach was so baffled as to be utterly speechless when I climbed out of the pool to head for the showers. That’s when I switched to band.

Band meant playing the flute with a bunch of other kids playing instruments and trying to create a sound approximating music. Whoever takes on band director as a career should certainly be nominated for sainthood. If they’re really up for a challenge, they work in teaching kids to march in formation while playing their instruments. I imagine what keeps many band directors going is the hope that some day, one of their students may end up playing in the USC Trojan Marching Band.

That never happened to me. But some of those summer activities did have staying power. Typing class has paid off many, many times over. Journalism and public speaking introduced me to the idea that a person actually could earn a living writing and talking, which is pretty much what I do, with a little bit of thinking thrown in.

In other words, summer activities really can lead to new skills and happy memories. But do your kids a favor: give them time to just have fun. And for heaven’s sake, wake up ten minutes early and eat breakfast at home. You don’t want your car to smell like sour milk.

More Bounce to the Ounce

Summer is almost here, by the calendar, but for many of us the first day of summer is signaled by a dramatic change in routine or weather. For kids here in the suburbs, the first day of summer is often the Friday before Memorial Day, the first of what they hope will be many lazy days of sleeping in, doing only what they want, and text messaging friends when they could just pick up the phone and talk to them.

In contrast, for overachieving alpha moms, the official start of summer begins with a rigorous schedule of activities like swim lessons, gymnastics, horseback riding, art appreciation classes, and space camp all tightly rolled into one day with a few stops along the way for sustenance. In a household with multiple kids, constantly ferrying them from one enriching experience to the next can be more work than work itself, which is why I have always held a steady job.

However, for those of us who are wine lovers, the first day of summer is the day we begin keeping the refrigerator stocked with our favorite Chardonnays, Pinot Grigios, and Rosés. So enthusiastic are we about the wines of summer that space-wise, we have to decide between allowing room in the fridge for the mayonnaise jar or another bottle of our favorite summer beverage. Bye-bye, Hellman’s! See you in the fall!

Such was the case in my household when chilly overcast days gave way to rainy overcast days. The weather still wasn’t suitable for a good barbecue, but the need for a raincoat instead of an overcoat meant we’d transitioned to another season.

It was on one of those days when I opened a bottle of my favorite Chardonnay in anticipation of some quiet time on the deck with my thoughts and the latest life-changing issue of O, the Oprah Magazine. I am no wine expert but I know what I like and St. Francis Chardonnay is a great way to ease into summer. It’s consistent from season to season and while it’s fashionable among some oenophiles to scorn buttery oaky Chardonnays like they’re the WalMart of wines, I like them.

Not every day, not for every occasion. But for me, starting off the summer wine season with a dependable Chardonnay like St. Francis is like starting a baseball game with the National Anthem. Provided Roseanne Barr isn’t singing.

There I was, taking a quick sniff before my first sip. I detected the scent of wildflowers, meadows, perfume…..unusual for a dependable Chardonnay that hints of pear and vanilla. I sipped. Interesting and not expected at all. Perhaps one of the perfume ads in O had somehow overpowered the wine?

Impossible. I hadn’t even cracked open the magazine. And yet the wine did have a perfume-y taste, like the time I took a cup of coffee into the bathroom while getting ready for work one morning. I had given myself a last-minute spritz of my favorite body scent before heading out and, had I not been driving along a busy highway where such an action could have endangered many lives, I might have swerved off the road. The taste was that vile.

This time the flavor wasn’t dreadful, because, obviously, I wasn’t drinking a shot of perfume, but still, it was a mystery.

A mystery soon solved with a little serendipitous detective work. I poured out the wine, washed the glass, mindlessly dried it with a towel while wondering what domestic discord Dr. Phil would solve in 90 words or less, and discovered the culprit. The towel had been part of a laundry load dried along with a sheet of Bounce fabric softener.

And that, my friends, is how my first wine of the summer ended up with more Bounce to the ounce. Now if you should decide to play a cruel joke on someone who claims to be a wine aficionado, just don’t tell them you learned about it here on Suburban Blurbs.

New Shoes Blues

The other day I found an especially attractive new suit at Macy’s in downtown Miami. I was there on business and wanted to look my best for a presentation the next day. It was lightweight, fit like a glove, and was discounted 20%. Don’t tell the people at Macy’s this, but I would have bought it even without the discount, it was that attractive.

This purchase posed a slight problem, however. The black espadrilles I had brought with me were far too casual to be worn with such elegant attire. Although they scored high on looks and comfort, they weren’t compatible with the suit. Wanting to hit on all cylinders for my presentation, I headed for the shoe department.

It was being run that afternoon solely by one person, a woman named Merle, who operated with authority and efficiency, the shoe store version of an air traffic controller. Merle directed customers from her command post behind the counter, where they brought her samples of the shoes they wanted to try on. She rang up satisfied customers and then quickly disappeared in the bowels of Macy’s where she retrieved shoe boxes for three people at a time.

Merle clearly knows her inventory. All she had to do was look at the style you wanted to purchase and right away she could find it if Macy’s had it. She could also tell you immediately if they didn’t. Even more amazing was the fact that a dozen or so women were in various stages of trying on shoes, modeling them, paying for them, or waiting patiently and NO ONE got upset. But here's what makes Merle a champion: she knows the sizes of all the display shoes without looking. She's that good.

After three attempts I found a pair that fit my feet as well as my shopping criteria, a pair of black patent pointy-toed pumps. The points are so severe that if I’m ever trapped in a vehicle or building I may be able to hack my way out simply by using my shoes. The heels apparently double as a hammer.

Purchases in hand, I floated out of Macy’s with that satisfied feeling you get when you know things are working out in life, like when the pizza delivery guy shows up less than a half hour from the time you called and the pizza is still mouth-searingly hot. It was a good omen for the start of a busy week away from home.

Appearance-wise, the combination of the suit and shoes was magical. But I wasn’t quite experiencing that same floaty feeling from the day before because the shoes were starting to pinch in a few places, like my heels, toes, and tops of my feet. “They just need some time to be broken in,” I rationalized. Later in the week I wore the same outfit to a different meeting, one that required more walking. By the end of the morning I was limping and wincing like someone who had sustained a groin injury.

A few bandages later the circulation in my feet was once again restored and I felt like a new person. I made it through the rest of the day with a smile on my face and continuing goodwill for humanity.

As for the shoes, they will be temporarily retired. I'll probably wear them again once the calluses on my feet build up to the point where I no longer feel the pain. Because here in the suburbs we all know it’s better to look good than to feel good.

If I Could Save Time in a Bottle...

If you've taken a commercial flight anytime during the past two years you know that the days of hauling around the jumbo Costco-sized bottle of shampoo you keep in your shower are over. That is, if you want to carry your suitcase onto your flight, as opposed to checking it in.

In fact, any container holding a liquid or gel of more than three ounces is subject to removal from your bag. This is because one day SOMEONE on a flight had a HARMFUL liquid or gel that almost caused DEATH AND DESTRUCTION and now ALL OF US have the potential to do the same thing, so WE MUST PAY.

Not that I’m upset. However, this regulation effectively eliminates the qualification for carry-on nearly every HBA (health and beauty aid) purchase I have made, because 1) I buy the Costco size and 2) I am at that stage in life where I require a great deal of HBA just to leave the house every day. This attention to detail is a good thing, particularly for loved ones and colleagues.

Normally on a business trip I just pack all of the required HBA and then check in my suitcase, leaving the business of hauling all those potentially lethal hair gels and toothpaste around to the airlines’ baggage handlers.

But due to some timing issues in getting from one place to another, I was forced on this six-day trip to pack as efficiently as a Sherpa in order to avoid checking in my luggage. Never before had I compressed six days worth of clothing, shoes, and HBA into my smallest Samsonite suitcase AND been able to zip it shut.

This was a challenge, another on my life list of things to accomplish before going to that great security check in the sky. By the way, I will definitely know if I’ve gone to the place of fire and flames if I encounter any of the humorless TSA agents I have met in this life.

The key to making this work is to purchase a set of very tiny HBA and/or some miniature plastic bottles, the kind Gulliver would have discovered in Lilliput. Then spend a couple of hours pouring and condensing your daily beauty routine into these small bottles. Be sure to label the bottles appropriately so that you don’t make a big mistake that could be difficult to fix, such as using self-tanning lotion as eye makeup remover.

THEN fit all of the tiny bottles into a quart-sized zip-loc bag. You will need to show this bag to the TSA agent while you are also removing your shoes, belt, metal jewelry, jacket, placing your keys in a small bowl, putting your laptop in a bin of its own, all without misplacing your boarding pass. It’s a juggling act worthy of the Barnum and Bailey Circus.

This is where good decision-making skills come in handy. Because I decided that blush is neither a liquid nor a gel, I placed it in my combination makeup/pharmacy bag along with the eye shadow and eye pencil. Liquid foundation, however, had to go into the zip-loc. After several hours of practicing artful arranging, I successfully fit my products into the bag.

Just for fun I computed how much time I will save once I arrive in Boston tomorrow and can exit the plane with my suitcase in hand instead of waiting for it at the baggage carousel: about 30 minutes. So for six hours of work (shopping, condensing, arranging, condensing, arranging some more) I will save a half hour.

But it’s worth it. I think I’ll carry on from here on out. Because as maddening as the whole process of miniaturizing HBA is, just try going without it at all. That’s what can happen if you get on the wrong side of a humorless TSA agent and your bags end up in Guam. And me without HBA is a lethal weapon we do not want to unleash on anyone, not even sworn enemies.

Swirling Suds and Memories

When I bought my charming country cottage in the city several years ago I knew it needed modernizing. I soon replaced a pair of cumbersome, counterweighted garage doors with a sleek single door and an electric opener. I gutted the flamingo pink bathroom. And I considered installing a dishwasher.

For years I put off making that improvement.

When friends asked, “Are you ever going to get a dishwasher?” I responded with an exasperated homeowner’s frown, hoping to obtain their sympathy. I complained that my kitchen was too tiny; I simply couldn’t give up the cabinet space. The truth was, I didn’t mind doing dishes by hand. In fact, it was the one household chore I didn’t mind doing every day.

What could be satisfying about a sink full of dirty dishes and steaming suds? Maybe it’s in the doing – the mindless work of swishing the dishcloth over plates, bowls and silverware, knowing they are spotless. Tomorrow I will have meetings to attend, budget crises to resolve, and children who need reminding to change the cat litter.

But here in this little corner of the world, everything’s in order. Cups, saucers and pans are clean and put away. The countertops sparkle and the stovetop shines, thanks to lemon dishwashing liquid, hot water and my own muscle. All is well as I turn off the light and go to bed, pleased with a job well done.

Or maybe washing dishes by hand connects me to another time and place where dishwashers didn’t exist – my grandparents’ home in a small Nebraska farm town. Holidays meant a happy swirl of their twelve children, their spouses and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren. At my grandparents’ home, the kitchen was the heart and Grandma was its soul. It was where you usually found her, expertly turning out Thanksgiving dinners that included mountains of real mashed potatoes, giblet gravy and ended with homemade sour cream raisin pie.

Afterward the men gathered in the living room to watch football while my mother and her sisters, all seven of them, formed an assembly line that would have taught Henry Ford a thing or two about efficiency. They lined up to wash, rinse, dry and put away enough dishes to fill two dishwashers, finishing in half the time it would have taken just to complete the rinse cycle.

The sisters-in-law joined the group, too, and over the years we granddaughters were invited to help. Washing dishes marked a transition from childhood to womanhood. And there was no better place to celebrate the change than among my kin in Grandma’s kitchen.

I suspect there was a reason why my grandmother never insisted on installing a dishwasher in her kitchen, a reason that had nothing to do with tough times or conserving electricity. At the end of a big meal everyone was full and content. Babies began their naps, children went off to play, and the men either went back to work on the farm or to watch the current bowl game. For an hour or so, the women could just be girls. While drying and stacking plates together they giggled, sharing the funny things their children said and husbands did.

The first time I ever saw my grandmother laugh so hard she cried was while washing dishes. I’ve long forgotten the story that sent tears rolling down her crinkled cheeks, but I’ll always remember her joy at sharing the secret delight of women laughing together while doing “their” work, turning a task into a treasure of time.

A few months ago I finally broke down and installed a dishwasher. I had convinced myself that it would add to the resale value of my home, enhancing its overall appearance. I admit it has its benefits. For one, my son is much more willing to empty the dishwasher now than he was to wash, rinse, dry and put away the dishes after dinner.

But lately I’ve found myself filling the sink with hot sudsy water to wash cake pans, mixing bowls, skillets and other cookware too large to fit in the dishwasher…and then washing the rest of the dishes one by one. “Might as well wash my good knives by hand since the sink’s full,” I rationalize. “I really need to give this coffee mug a good scrubbing,” I say aloud to no one. I wash, I rinse, I dry alone, and for a brief time I am 16 again, stacking Corelle dinnerware with my adored grandmother in her kitchen.

What If The Big One Comes?

It didn't tonight. And thousands of us in south central Kansas are glad.

My favorite meteorologist, Mike Smith of WeatherData, warned yesterday that today's weather conditions replicated a pattern from June 8, 1974, when three dozen tornadoes touched down in the southern plains. Being a lifelong resident of Kansas I take tornado warnings very seriously. Those who have seen me tote around my portable weather radio all day long might say a bit too seriously.

I just want to have a fighting chance if the Big One comes. Today's advance notice was the most serious threat this year, so I immediately went into tornado preparedness mode. My goal: minimal damage to family, home, and of course, my lipstick collection.

Regarding family, until today I was the only one who owned her own Oregon Scientific Portable Weather Radio. To share the joy I bought one for my daughter and one for my parents so that they, too, could be awakened in the middle of the night by the radio's jarring high-pitched alarm.

Then I worked assembling my disaster preparedness kit. The Red Cross advises having:

1) a first aid kit and essential medications
2) foods that don't require cooking or refrigeration and a manual can opener
3) bottled water
4) flashlights
5) a battery-powered radio with extra batteries and other emergency items for the whole family.

Diane, my trusted hair artist, suggested these items:

6) a pickaxe in case you have to hack your way out of a pile of debris
7) long pants and a long-sleeved shirt to protect your skin

To be honest, I forgot about the first aid kit or medications, so focused was I on finding a pickaxe. In an effort to be efficient and get home as quickly as possible, I visited WalMart, the standard for one-stop shopping, where you can have your tires rotated, eat lunch, pick up some plants for the garden, and buy canned goods for your disaster preparedness kit all under one roof.

Unfortunately, you cannot find a pickaxe on the tool aisle. At least I couldn't. Colorful fishing lures of every size and shape imaginable, yes, pickaxes (or any kind of ax), no.

Once home, I quickly assembled a food box of non-perishables by grabbing the first few items I could find in the pantry. Were I to become trapped in my own basement, my next few meals would consist of four different types of canned beans, a jar of minced garlic, and a bottle of pickapeppa sauce, the theory being that I could then blast myself out from under the debris on my own power. If you know what I mean.

Knowing that the wine cellar is in the basement, and that if it really is the Big One I would rather be sipping a really velvety Cabernet with notes of blackberry and oak than bottled water, I included a corkscrew and plastic wineglass in my kit.

I also included amenities, such as a big fluffy pillow, a thick comforter, and some essentials, such as the remote to the plasma tv. When the siren went off, I moved downstairs with confidence. I was ready to spend the entire evening and even the night holed up inside my tornado shelter.

But the tornadoes were never a serious threat, at least not in my little suburb. I hope they didn't menace anyone else, either. It rained only a little, and I never lost power.So the Big One didn't come today. Far from being disappointed, I'm relieved. But once the siren sounded and I was safely downstairs I realized one thing: I had forgotten to retrieve the lipsticks.

Perhaps I don't need to take the entire collection to the basement. I'll just put a couple of spares in the disaster preparedness kit. Because it's a disaster of a different kind if a cute rescuer shows up and a gal doesn't have on her lipstick.

The Drumbeat Red Goes On

Perhaps you are wondering why I have so many lipsticks arranged in ascending order beginning with 103 – Revlon’s "Caramel Glacé" and ending with 892, L’Oréal’s “Raisin Rapture.” I have wondered that myself, and believe I have found the reason.

It is this: I am a sucker for almost any advertisement that claims, however subtly, to make me look as gorgeous as the model in the photo.

Which explains Drumbeat Red.

The cutout of the model on L’Oréal’s lipstick display was nearly full-size. She had pale skin and blue eyes like me. And the red lipstick she wore was just right. Not overly garish, yet not invisibly subtle. She was provocative but in an innocent way, like, “Aw, shucks, I didn’t think I’d look THIS great with just a little ol' tube of red lipstick!”

Add to that the rainy day effect. When it’s raining and you can’t carry an umbrella, purse, briefcase AND cup of coffee all at the same time, you sacrifice the umbrella. You get a good soaking, at least on the head, and maybe even the legs, if a thoughtless driver splashes you.

It must have been raining that day. I’m almost certain of it. And I was traveling, far from home. The model's hand was extended, the lipstick like a torch. The store display flashed a subliminal message.

‘Come, you tired, you poor,
You drenched masses yearning to be free
of the wretched refuse of your soaked clothing.
Come to me, I lift my red lipstick up
Inside the Target door….’

Or something like that.

I thought, if all that is standing between me looking fantastic, the way this model does, and the drowned rat I am now, is a tube of Drumbeat Red….count me in!

And before you could say “Cat in the Hat” I was the proud owner of a new tube of Drumbeat Red, L’Oréal Number 310.

I returned to my hotel room and immediately applied the treasure. There were no dinners, no appointments that evening, just quiet time to work and read. But I was excited. Any minute I knew the Drumbeat Red would work its magic, transforming me from wethead to vamp.

After working on my computer for an hour or so I saw myself in the mirror. The Drumbeat Red had spread. Small dots of it appeared around my mouth and on my cheeks, even on the backs of my hands and my sweater. My only explanation for this was that perhaps I had pursed my lips and chewed on my pen while concentrating, spreading Drumbeat Red like a virus.

I realized that if I weren’t careful, I’d have red muck all over the hotel room like the Pepto-pink in “The Cat in the Hat Comes Back.” I thought, “I need Voom, and I need it NOW!”

Lucky for me, a few tissues wiped up the spread of red, erasing forever the fantasy that a tube of lipstick was all I needed to be glamorous. I felt more like the character Bette Davis played in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane”, an aging actress who, among other cardinal sins, was unable to keep lipstick within her lip lines.

Yet I keep the tube of Drumbeat Red. If not a tube of hope, it’s certainly a tube of amusement on a rainy day.

Two, Two, Two Tubes in One

My colleague Paula is a very smart cookie. But frequent travel has a way of making even smart cookies crumble, or at least lose a chocolate chip once in awhile.

[Note: Paula said I could share this story, for which I am grateful.]

Paula worked at the Habitat for Humanity Pascagoula site in Mississippi along with several of us from Knight Foundation. Toward the end of the week she broke out into painfully itchy hives on her face. This had never happened to her before, and she was eager to find a solution.

The hives bothered her so much that she went to the First Aid tent on site for a remedy. She was given a dose of Benadryl along with the advice not to operate any power tools. In fact, the First Aid team recommended that she go back to her hotel.

Meanwhile, another colleague asked me if I had a remedy. Perhaps she knew that, due to the size of the suitcase I typically carry, I always have a small pharmacy on hand. True to form, I had a tube of anti-itch cream. In fact, I had two.

I gave Paula the tube with more cream and hoped it would help.

It did, in more ways than one. Because shortly after our trip, Paula traveled again, this time to Washington DC. Being exhausted, she didn't look carefully at the tube of anti-itch cream and began brushing her teeth with it.

In her words, "My tongue didn't itch all day. Crazy. I travel with few cosmetics so without looking am used to grabbing the only tube which always is toothpaste. I really need the weekend off!!!"

I'm certainly glad her teeth didn't itch. I'm also glad she didn't ask for a tube of Superglue. We need her at the office, not in the hospital having her lips unsealed!

But she shouldn't be too hard on herself. I purchased the tubes of toothpaste and anti-itch cream featured in the above photo earlier today. You can see how much they resemble each other in size, shape, and color scheme. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to grab the hydrocortisone cream, squeeze it onto your toothbrush, and not realize until you were swishing around a mouthful of it that you'd made a mistake.

I'm seeing a business opportunity here for an earnest entrepreneur with a potential payoff that could surpass that of the Ginsu Knife: a combination toothpaste/anti-itch compound that perhaps also has the added benefit of improving crow's feet around the eyes. This could really be a boon to all of us business travelers who very nearly fill TSA's requisite quart-sized Ziploc bag with all of our HBA (Health and Beauty Aids).

No, Paula, far from making a mistake, you just might be onto something big. Just don't ask me for any Superglue, because I don't carry that in my pharmacy.