A Short and Embarrasing Encounter With Bobbi Brown

I insulted make-up maven, Bobbi Brown, within 5 minutes of meeting her.

I took my mother to Canyon Ranch in Massachusettes, for a few days, to celebrate her 70th birthday, and Mother’s Day. But for that price, it’s going to count as her next two birthday gifts.

We hit the road and, although visions of Thelma & Louise, never really danced in our heads, we caught up on the goings on in our lives. After a wrong turn here and an antique store there, we arrived three hours later, just in time for lunch. I was not going to miss out on a free meal. 

In a matter of 48 hours, we saw Ted Koppel in a bathrobe, went zip lining, and both my mother and I managed to embarrass ourselves and insult the make-up maven herself, Ms. Bobbi Brown!

On our last morning at the ranch, we walked into the adorable cafe for breakfast where I immediately spotted Bobbi Brown and another woman sitting at a table. I was sure that my mom hadn’t seen her and it didn’t matter because we were going to take a seat at the far end of the cafe to take in the view of the sprawling property. But when another woman sat down at the window, my mother, sensing that it might be a bit cramped, sat down at the table next to Bobbi.

It’s hard to know what possesses me to do or say the things that I do and it’s probably better that I don’t look too closely. What I knew was that, for whatever reason, I was going to talk to Bobbi Brown, so I commented on her sausage. Say what?

It was the first thing that came to mind. She was eating a sausage, and I marveled at how good it looked and that maybe I should order one. What? She sensed my indecisiveness and asked me if I was a vegetarian. I told her that I ate fish and chicken, to which she assured me that it was a chicken sausage. I smiled and thought about the next asinine thing I could say.

I wouldn’t have to wait long.

I couldn’t help imagine what she was probably thinking, “These women don’t wear make-up? Really?” Leave it to me and my non make-up wearing mother to sit right next to Bobbi Brown. She did offer up some of her coffee, while we waited for ours, but I graciously declined. I thought that might’ve started a diarrhea of the mouth shit storm from me.

She said she was going to see what I was eating because I looked so fit. She opened the door. I simply walked in. I thanked her but the truth was, I was wearing black from head to toe. I didn’t need to tell her how slimming black can be. I told her that my bodily specimen of perfection was due to Pilates, which wasn’t entirely true. I’d been doing the Insanity workout and remiss with my Pilates practice, but I thought the conversation would end there, so I didn’t care.

Upon hearing Pilates, she humphed and the woman who was sitting across from her said, “I’m a Pilates instructor.” Shit. I replied, “Me too.” We chatted about our certifications, and where we lived. When I said New Jersey, Bobbi asked where and as it turns out we live about 15 minutes from each other. I told her that I had seen a house in her town that I had fallen in love with and that I wanted to replicate it in the town where my boyfriend and I were building a house. I’m sure she hadn’t heard a riveting story like that in a long time.

We continued speaking and my mom still didn’t know who we were talking to. This will mean a lot in a moment. Bobbi and her companion looked alike, and the ranch is notorious for mother daughter getaways, so I asked if they were mother and daughter. Bobbi shot me a look that felt like a dagger had pierced my heart, soul and cerebral cortex. Clearly they were not a mother and daughter team. I tried to be funny, and I back pedaled super fast. They were sisters.

Bobbi asked where my mom was from, and when she told her, Bobbi said that she only knew one family that lived there. The Lauren’s. My mom thought. Bobbi continued, “Ralph.” My mom said, “Oh, yeah, they were living there. But I don’t know if they’re still there.” I wanted her to stop talking because I think that Bobbi Brown would know where Ralph Lauren, who she’s probably broken bread with, lives. But I’m sorry to say that it went back and forth one more round before the topic was dropped.

I only wish that I had my business cards on me. I would’ve offered to barter with Bobbi, make-up lessons for Pilates lessons.             

Don't Put Hard Boiled Eggs in Your Bag

I went into the city yesterday for my annual mammogram. Controversy aside, since my insurance company pays for it, I do it. It’s that simple. When I went into the dressing room to put on the two sheets of paper towels the medical field calls a gown, I looked in the mirror and saw that my pants zipper was down.

I don’t know how long it had been down. A while, since I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom. That explained the smiles from strangers on the street. I thought they were reacting to my ravishing beauty. Oh, well. I wouldn’t care so much if this had been the first time, but it wasn’t. It was however, indicative of the day I had.

I’m a performer deep down, always have been, always will be, and an audience is my crack, but when the head Mammographer brought in two other women technicians to ‘observe’ the squishing and shmooshing of my tits on a plate of glass, I got stage fright. Not that the techies could tell. I’m a professional and the head techie even commented on how mobile and pliable I was. I’m a star! Or I have star tata’s. Whichever. 

I left the mammary performance and had a hell of a time deciding what to eat. I left the house early in the morning and only had time for a large cup of coffee, which was now irritating my stomach wall. I know, I can’t find anything to eat in New York, pathetic. I have some food restrictions, too many places to choose from overwhelms me. And then I remembered that I had put two hard boiled eggs in my Lululemon Flight bag.

I usually pack an egg or two on trips; whether it by car, plane, or in this case, a train trip to the big apple. The hard boiled egg had exploded. It got squished (not unlike my bosom) in my bag and shells and yolk were everywhere.

I tried to salvage it, and it turned into a big fat mess. Did I mention that I was juggling my bag, and the egg, as I walked? I believe most people would’ve thrown the egg in the gutter, as soon as it was retrieved from the bag. No sir, not me.

I despise it when people, especially New Yorkers, throw their trash into and onto the city streets. Of course an egg was different, it wasn’t a cigarette butt, but it took me three blocks, with egg yolk on my face (pun intended) and hands until I said, “Fuck it, “ and threw it into the gutter.

The rest of the day went something like this. I paid $7.50 for a lame-ass sandwich that I ate while I walked. I had to wait a half an hour until the box office to the show I was getting tickets to opened, standing around looking like a tourist. I met my mom for lunch because I didn’t see her on Mother’s Day and she, not only forgot a book from her house that I asked to borrow, after reminding her on two separate occasions, but she made me a Mother’s Day card of sorts, which was uber sweet, but it referred to me as The Boyfriend Mom, instead of The Girlfriend Mom.

Have you met me, mother?