CHINA WINS AGAIN

At 68, I don’t wear a lot of makeup any more, and I haven’t used hair coloring in years.  (I kind of like the silvery grey-blonde it is now).  But L’Oreal has always been one of my go-to companies.  Was it the exotic French name?  Oh, probably a little bit, yes.  Not too different from a lot of others, I would guess, for whom France tantalizes from afar and somehow using a cosmetic with such a name makes one feel more feminine.  More important, though, is the fact that L’Oreal has always been in my price range.  I don’t shop at Nordstrom’s or Saks, hardly ever even go to Macy’s.  But L’Oreal has been a dependable brand whose products did what they were supposed to do.  Their commercials might have promised more, but at least they didn’t deliver less than I expected.

So imagine my disgust when I went to my Facebook page (yeah, I have a Facebook page, but that will be the topic of another blog, another day) and was confronted with this tidbit:

(Sponsored by: The Animal Rescue Site)

“Isn’t it time that cosmetic testing on animals be a thing of the past? Evidently L’Oreal Paris doesn’t think so.

L’Oreal continues to use rabbits as test subjects for their beauty products. These tests involve extremely painful procedures that can severely injure or kill the animals. Substances are dropped into their eyes, skin is shaved down in order to test chemicals, and poisons are force-fed. Most of the animals are then euthanized after they have served L’Oreal’s purpose.

You, as the consumer, have an opportunity to call L’Oreal out on its disgusting methods. Sign the pledge declaring a boycott of all L’Oreal products until the company ceases to use animals in testing of any kind!”

Here’s the petition:

Dear Chairman and CEO Jean-Paul Agon:

I am writing to let you know that until your company stops using animals in cosmetic testing, I will not buy any L’Oreal product.

L’Oreal continues to use rabbits in tests for beauty products, and the processes aren’t pretty. Substances are dropped into their eyes, skin is shaved down in order to test chemicals, and poisons are force-fed. The animals are then euthanized when they are no longer needed.

And all to meet China’s requirements to sell in their markets. This financially motivated decision to test on animals suggests your company’s ethics are for sell.

Your actions are nothing more than animal cruelty and need to stop now. Please resort to non-animal testing if you would like to keep me as a customer.

Sincerely,

So, Msr. Jean-Paul Agon, if L’Oreal can’t make enough money from its loyal customers outside China, you should go into another business.  Because you’re certainly not going to get mine anymore.

Now, read this and weep:

French cosmetics giant L’Oréal is aiming for 250 million new customers in China as a newly-affluent middle class spends its increasing wealth on the group’s stable of luxury skincare brands like Lancôme, chief executive Jean-Paul Agon said today.

The company’s Luxe luxury division, which also plans to launch its Yves Saint Laurent fragrances in China next month, has enlisted celebrities including Julia Roberts and Emma Watson to appeal to Chinese consumers in a market for luxury goods that has doubled in the past five years. New markets including China accounted for almost half of the division’s €5.56 billion (£4.7 billion) sales last year.The world’s second biggest economy is set to create 260 million more middle class consumers by 2020 as city dwellers account for the majority of the population for the first time.  Agon, speaking in Shanghai, said the cosmetics firm would be extending its reach beyond major centres like Shanghai to smaller cities and added:  “A potential 250 million new customers will be using our products in the next 10-15 years, making China the number one contributor to our ambition of winning one billion new customers.”

 

Accompanying the article was a photo of lovely Chinese models applying L’Oreal’s makeup in front of mirrors.  No rabbit pictures were included.

 

Here’s where you can sign & SHARE the petition: www.bit.ly/18GBLez

 

While you’re at it, send copies to Julia Roberts and Emma Watson, too!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE TO ALL THE SECRET MOTHERS

I initially wrote this for last year’s Mother’s Day.  I think it needs repeating, not because I wrote it but because there are a lot of hurting hearts out there.

The Womb of the Unknown Mother

You were young.  Too young.  Or perhaps not.

Innocent and naive…or perhaps not.

You already had too many mouths to feed.  Or just your own, but not enough food.

The father had denied.  Never answered your letter.  Or simply disappeared.

Your parents were angry.  Embarrassed.  Ashamed.  And/or Catholic.

Yet abortion was never a consideration.  Catholic or no religion, for you life is a life, even if it must be lived away from yours.

So you gave the child away and walked into your future alone.

Most of your friends, even your relatives, don’t know about this part of your past life, your lost child.  Perhaps the only one you ever bore.

They don’t know about the solemn thoughts that sometimes steal into you in the dark silence of the late night hours.  Or that stab you in teary surprise as you walk past the baby department on your way to the perfume counter.

But there are some who understand, some whose external lives may not mirror yours yet whose internal lives mesh perfectly with yours, if only on Mother’s Day.  And on this day, you all travel together separately, deep inside yourselves, to meet the person you were then and try to explain once again to yourself and your far-away child why you did what you did.

Perhaps your deed was heroic, perhaps selfish.  Probably some of both.  It was what it was and you became who you are.

But there will always be one small corner of your heart, one soft layer of your womb that is empty and will never be filled.  It is to that part I address my salutation, and I mourn with you in sisterhood and motherhood.

And for your life today, what you have made of yourself, I offer a

Happy Unknown Mother’s Day.

Fun Things I Did This Weekend

Found an old book I had kept (A Short History of a Small Town, by T.R. Pearson) and reread it to see why I had kept it.  Yep, It’s a keeper.   In the 70s, I took a course at Cal State Long Beach called Fiction Now.  It was taught by someone who was to become a well-known poet and author, Gerald Locklin.  He introduced me to Tom Robbins and John Gardner.  He had me read Mary Hemingway, too, but then, nobody’s perfect.   If Pearson had been around back then, I think Jerry would have had me read that author, too.  Actually, I wish he had because then I would have known this guy was around.  Truth is, I’ve spent a lot of years looking for good female writers.  A vestige of my roaring feminist past, I guess.   I can see many weekends ahead gorging myself on Pearson.

Watched a movie from 2004 (Connie and Carla).  Only got 2-1/2 stars from the DISH-TV review but 6+ in my book.  But then I’m partial to comedies and musicals, especially since my brother was a Broadway percussionist specializing in musicals in the 60s.  I bet I know almost every lyric to every musical back then.  My canary, TJ, and I sang all the way through a TV no-commercials showing of  Oklahoma.  My mother-in-law said she couldn’t hear herself talk.  Neither could I.  Heheheheh.

Went to the site of a WP blogger (writingforfoodinindy) who had liked my quad-observational post and wrote a very nice, succinct critique of it.  I’ve found a new writer to follow and with whom I look forward to many interesting discussions.

Had a surprise call from my high school buddy and spent over an hour talking about old memories and making new ones.  I hate talking on the telephone.  Whenever it rings, I hope it’s either a wrong number or a telemarketer just waiting for me to slam the receiver down in his/her ear.  I almost didn’t answer this call.  I would have missed a highlight of my weekend.  When will I learn to think of the phone as my friend?  OK, so never.  So any friends who might be reading this, I apologize ahead of time if your call doesn’t get answered.  I’m sorry.  Really.  I know, I can be a real asshole at times.

Went through an old journal from the ’70s and found some of my writings that I reworked and posted here.  Gave me some impetus for writing again.  More than stuff like this post.  I hope.  And that made me think just now about what someone long ago had said in one of the many writing classes I’ve taken over the years:  Ya gotta write it all out, good and bad, and keep writing and getting it out there.  Get it all out, the good, the bad and the ugly, until nothing is left but the good.  Or the ugly.  The ugly is good, too.  OK, so no one said that last part except me.  I think it’s pretty ugly;-)

Memorial Fragments

He takes her head in his hands to kiss her

a wet-tongue kiss

and his fingers and mustache, even his saliva

smell of marijuana.

Then he arches and groans.

He hasn’t noticed her lack of response.

She knows she’s alone

He’s gone inside himself again,

Not sharing love.

Not sharing anything.

They ask her why she doesn’t smoke anymore

and she tells them it’s school

no dope during school.

But that’s not it.

She just got tired of evenings spent

with friends and a bhong

Each of them alone though they were all together.

So she doesn’t smoke anymore.

When they finally get dressed she goes to her room,

sits at her desk,

does homework.

While he watches the six o’clock news and gets stoned.

The Clairol Girl

A mattress

is only a mattress,

and

at 33

I’m not getting better.

Only older.

Evening Observation By the Quad

He stands on a stone bench near the bookstore,
Bible in one hand.
The other, outstretched, beckons the passing students.

“He died for your sins!”

They walk around him.

“When was the last time you considered in your heart…”

The 6 o’clock chimes drown him out as a young woman
taps past, her white cane skirting the bench.

“Won’t you listen to me? Won’t you hear?”

Four girls sit on the bench at his feet. He smiles at them.

“Will you humble yourselves, or will you go to oblivion?”

The girls stand. One glances up at him, speaks.
“Oblivion Newton John–isn’t she a singer?”

Smile frozen, he turns away,
steps off the bench.
Disappears into the passing crowd.

Slippery slope...

Reblogged from Pouring My Art Out:

I think I have figured out why Republicans are so nervous about having a President who is half African-American in the 'White' House.

It is that whole slippery slope thing.

You know, like how if we allow gay marriage, pretty soon people will be marrying clams and unicorns and chairs and stuff.

And that is why I think it would be great if, for the next election, we nominate a half Asian-American, half Hispanic-American lesbian.

He's got my vote...

I Don’t Care If It Rains Or Freezes

There’s a graffiti artist in the LA Fairfax district who has probably gained more fame in the last two days than in the rest of his artistic life by spray painting on a wall a silhouette of Lance Armstrong riding his bike with an IV attached. Look it up yourself.

The artist otherwise known as Plastic Jesus was a big fan of Lance, who, he says, “…was the ultimate cycling hero for me. He took cycling out of the geek enthusiast arena and brought it to a mainstream audience. People bought bikes and wore lycra because of Lance’s profile, success and status,” says the 48-year-old, who is also from Britain but moved to L.A. in 2007.

And another sports hero bites the dust.

But geez, anything that will get cyclists out of lycra is more than okay by me.

THE UGLIEST ORNAMENT

I love Christmas ornaments. I love collecting them. I started out with rocking horses, went on to add Santas and then angels and then anything made of wood, and then anything made of tin, and then…well, you get the idea. In the last several years I’ve added dogs and cats and sheep and reindeer, trikes and bikes and cars and trains. I have nine big tubs of Christmas decorations which hold mostly ornaments. Since we moved to a much smaller house last summer, I knew I was going to have to cut the collection way down. I started two weeks ago and there are still too many.

Ornaments hang on the miniature tree sitting on the diningroom table and from the Thai wall hanging in the livingroom. They line the fireplace mantel and crowd all three shelves of the corner display rack. They are hooked onto the baskets that sit atop the kitchen cupboards and around every drawer knob in the place.

I love all of my ornaments because they represent animals I’ve owned or people I’ve known. I bought some of them because they were too cute for words and others because they were shiny and glamorous. Some are just funny, like the three little snowmen who look like they came from a Mexican Day of the Dead celebration and the silly clown riding a sleigh that’s made to resemble a reindeer. There are some that sit, some that stand, some that hang and some that you pull on and their arms and legs go up and down. I have a load of ornaments that are dedicated to golf and fishing and others that resemble tools (R always gets one tied to each of his presents). Some are religious and others profane (I mean, really, Day of the Dead snowmen?).

But there’s one ornament in my collection that is extra special to me. It’s the ugliest ornament I’ve ever seen. Really. One day-after-Christmas, I don’t remember how long ago, I found myself at the grocery store waiting in line at the register when my eye caught a clearance cart–you know, those carts they fill with expired and otherwise useless items they hope I someone will be stupid enough to buy. And athough I’ve become much better at fending off my whim purchases, I still can’t stop being stupid enough to stay away from those clearance carts.

While digging, I spied something red that warranted a closer look. Almost on the bottom, tangled up in torn garlands and light strings missing some bulbs, was what looked like some sort of wooden animal wearing a little red scarf. I separated its ears from the garland and extricated its body away from an opened and half-empty card of batteries and found myself staring at, I guess, a strange-looking mouse. It was part brown, part gray, and part white, and it had that bedraggled scarf around its neck. Its glossy body was scratched in places and its legs had been broken off. It lay there in my hand looking decrepit and ugly. I almost threw it back in the cart.

But then I thought if I didn’t buy it, nobody else would, and it would probably end up in a dump somewhere. Sure, it was wooden and therefore organic and would decompose in several years. But then I thought, “If I don’t buy this poor ugly little ornament, no one else will, either.” Because I know myself for feeling sorry even for little wooden things with scratchy surfaces and broken-off legs. So I bought it. Actually, I got it for free–when the cashier saw it, she said she couldn’t charge me for it.

Scratched, broken, legless? What good is it? Why did I want it? I guess I identify with that ugly little thing.

I remember when I was a tall, skinny kid with coke-bottle-bottom glasses and straight hair before straight hair was “in.” When I stopped going to high school dances because I was tired of holding up the wall. When nobody rescued me from the tangle at the bottom of the cart. Now I’m older and wiser and no longer skinny, and I love being tall because I can reach the top shelf in that grocery store. And every Christmas I get out my nine boxes of ornaments and that scratched little legless mouse gets a special perch on the tree.

I wish for everyone this Christmas a special perch and this small musical moment for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRqjFcP_aw0

I SHOULD WRITE ABOUT THIS

For the last three months, I haven’t posted a thing on my blog.  The election has come and gone, several new assassinations and attacks have occurred worldwide, one of the barking zombies came close to death from eating a sick werewolf or perhaps an anemic vampire bat, and R almost had to have back surgery.   And still I couldn’t write.  Too much anger?  Too much fear?  Not enough prunes?  Who knows.  However, I have finally come to the conclusion that I need to write something, anything, to entice my muse to return.  So I’ve written down a few ideas that might get me going again, a few things I could write about.  To whit:

Last September we moved.  Again.  We move about every three years or so.  You’d think we were in the military.  You’d also think that by now I would have gotten rid of some of the detritus, but no, boxes still wait in the garage and my room.  I look at them and sigh.  This is supposed to be our last move, our retirement haven.  I shouldn’t need anything that’s still in a box, can’t even remember most of what’s in those boxes.  But I can’t make myself give them away without even opening them one more time.  I should write about this.

Speaking of moving, nothing is harder on my knees.  Not that I do a lot of heavy floor scrubbing or anything.  I just tend to trip a lot over ladders and electric cords or stub my toes on the top of a new set of stairs I’m not used to climbing.  Every time I trip or stub, I fall hard on my knees, resulting in a bruise that starts under my toes and goes all the way to about an inch below my hip.  Every three years or so, one of my legs looks like I just had a full-length avant garde tattoo placed.   I should write about this.

Organizer Peter Walsh says he looks at the boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations in clients’ garages and says to himself…ok, I read it a few days ago and forgot exactly what it was he said, but it was something about people having way too many decorations for any sane person to even think about.  At this very moment there are 12 boxes, three large loose wreaths and a couple of bags of Christmas stuff in the garage waiting for me to attack them.   Aside from the fact that Peter Walsh is anal, I should write about this.

I remember when Christmas decorations were all about the red and the green, maybe a touch of silver, a smidge of gold.  Now all of my favorite magazines are showing gifts and decorations and holiday clothing in chartreuse and puce and teal and neon orange.  I thought traditions were traditional.  I should write about this.

My significant other has a new love—Taylor Swift.  Looks like an angel.  Sings like an angel.  I should be jealous but I’m not.  I love her too.  So how come he doesn’t feel the same way about Michael Bublé?  Barry Manilow?  Josh Groban?  Hmmm.  I should should not write about this.

Four out of five:  Not bad.  Not great, but maybe a new beginning.  Prunes, anyone?