Moxie (and Some Man Candy)

The other night, my gorgeous friend L. up and quit her job. She'd been thinking about it, dare I say fantasizing about it, for months. It doesn't seem that there was any particular incident that led to the reverse pink slip, other than perhaps a desire not to end up like the woman who died at her desk--and none of her colleagues noticed until the next day. (Sarcasm here would be the written equivalent of too much jewelry: unnecessary and unattractive.)

Leaving a job without another one lined up, especially in a recession, takes a lot of guts, conviction, confidence, and faith. If L. were a man, she'd be described as having balls (always pronounced BAWLz, to give it that extra oomph). I prefer the more female-appropriate and frankly cuter sounding word moxie.

Moxie, I've found, is one of those 40+ perks. Women under 40 can have confidence, sass, audacity, cheek if they're British, chutzpah if they're Jewish. Sometimes, their boldness is just described as being crazy. Moxie is different--a more mature, elegant mixture of courage and adventurousness. It's backbone with a dash of dash. There's life experience in moxie, though it may be just as impulsive as its little sister crazy.

My utterly fabulous Nana had moxie for days. Also due to another impulsive job departure--Grandpa quitting his milkman gig--Nana found herself trapped in a remote farmhouse with no job and no friends, baking and watching her waistline thicken while her sanity slimmed. One day, Grandpa came home and found all the farm animals gone; Nana had sold them all and announced that they were wintering in Florida or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Because of this, my mother's code for an act of moxie is, "Sometimes, you just have to sell the cows." That's what L. did when she quit her job. It's a leap of faith, having the moxie to sell the cows. But what a view as you sail through the air.

And what does Mr. Depp have to do with moxie, or a blog about the fabulousness of the 40+ set? Other than that he's effin' h-o-t-t and I need a little window dressing for this blog or who the hell's going to read it, he's L.'s ultimato favorito. This is my way of sending her a Man Candygram, not for seizing life by a crude term for anatomy she doesn't possess, but for having moxie.

Besos, bellezas.

Fix It or Forget It

I'm in a blurry generational area, not quite Boomer, not X-centric, but I'm still of the age where I express most of my deepest feelings with pop culture references. To wit, my mood today is summed up very nicely with this movie poster:

While I don't subscribe to the tyrannical ultra-positive movement that suggests, with a patronizing smile, that we turn every single frown upside down, I do have a caveat to these times when I stare out the window like women in ads for depression meds. It's one simple rule:

Fix it or forget it.

I can't take credit for this little gem of a whine cork; that goes to Amy Gross, a true maven and role model. She's very serene and into meditation while still maintaining glamour and a chic wardrobe. She's got it going on.

Fortunately, though, my angst has nothing to do with being in my 40s; it's the same meaningful, sigh-inducing existential blah blah I felt in my 20s. No wonder I feel so young! [<---sarcasm] But to tie in that whole "Fix it or forget it" motto, here's a 40-something issue that can be fixed: naked-looking eyes. 

One morning I told my dear friend Shez, "I want to know who the f*c% stole my eyelashes." While never exactly a stand-in for Bambi, I at least had something to bat at the boys (and, later, my husband). One day, though, I realized that I was starting to look like (prepare for another pop culture reference!) David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth:

Okay, not quite that bad, but you get my meaning.

Anorexic eyelashes are one of the less-great parts of getting older becoming a more mature, self-possessed fabulous woman. They're something you can, and should, fix rather than forget. You could try that paint-on chemical that Brooke Shields touts; a woman I know is having some positive results with it. I'm going for the easier, less chemicals-on-my-eyes approach: good ol' mascara.

In this situation, your mascara choice takes on the same level of importance that your decision for college did back when you had a full, lush set of sweepers. My independent, non-corporate funded (I wish) research has led me to two options in predictably varied price points.

If you still have a job in this recession and are willing to $pend, go for Lancome Définicils High Definition Mascara. Better for length than thickness, but will take your lashes from non-existent to knocking people over. Average cost: about $25.

If you're unemployed self-employed and tend toward thrift, go for Maybelline Sky High Curves. This mascara has it all: length and almost pornographic thickening power. Average cost: three ($3!) measly bucks.

I do love a problem I can fix and forget. And now, I can get back to staring out the window and sighing existentially.

Later, locas.