Gigi here, Allow me to begin by wishing you a wondrous Christmas or Hanukkah, replete with joy, peace, and surprises galore. You see, you Meg Heads make every day a holiday for the other reviewers and me, all possible because of Meg. We look forward to hearing from you as a child does to receiving the latest game from the video store. You have us at the computer when we should be doing other things. May you receive back the love you have freely given this year a hundred-fold. Scratch that–a thousand-fold!
You are aware of my personal stories–tripping a nun, having green hair, finding teeth marks on a drugstore lipstick and so much more. I’ve opened up my heart because you allow me to be me. I know you won’t judge, that you’ll leave insightful and hysterical comments which will challenge, give me chills of awe, and often make me run to the bathroom after guffawing.
Now it’s your turn to speak. We want to know you better. We want to know about experiences from your life so that we have insight into the readers behind the profiles and pretty pictures. We’d also love great holiday material with laughs galore or even something to leave us misty-eyed. Please tell a particular Christmas story which lingers in your heart–funny, ridiculous, embarrassing, sad, nostalgic, sweet, whatever. Something you’ll never forget. Something you would wrap in a gorgeous box and tie with a huge silk ribbon to keep for your grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’ll start off with two sentimental tales to get you started.
1) When I was in junior high, my older sister Ruthie decided to go to a party on Christmas Eve. Two senior boys came to our house and one was meant as a date for me. Yikes! What does a thirteen-year-old do with someone eighteen? I did sneak a look at my intended escort. He was gorgeous, played football, and was an imposing figure in his letterman’s jacket with leather sleeves. His voice had deepened and he spoke like a real man and didn’t squeak like the other boys I knew. My knees shook. He was old. He needed orthopedic shoes. He belonged in a home for assisted living. The worst part? He had probably been around. My kisses with young loves until then were short and awkward. Somehow one of us always wound up with a bite, bruised nose, or slobber. What if he really knew what to do? What if he–I couldn’t bring myself to think it–French-kissed me? I’m an American citizen! I would be fodder for embarrassment.
My parents–for shame!–encouraged me to go because my sister would act as a chaperone. Since when do parents beg you to go out? Yet my mother understood my apprehension. She gave me a beautiful outfit to wear to the party which she was saving for me to open the next morning. It fit perfectly but I still didn’t have the nerve to say yes and wear it on my date with Ruthie and the huge, ancient males waiting in the living room. So I did what any insane young girl would do–locked the door to my bedroom, knelt, and prayed for them to leave. There was no way I was going but they remained. In yet another attempt, my mom coaxed me with a special gift, something that tugs at my heart to this day.
She didn’t splurge on cosmetics for herself but on ones for us. For the first time, she had bought something from Elizabeth Arden and had a wonderful box full of goodies as a gift with purchase. I will never forget her taking it out and offering it all to me to boost my confidence. To this day, I see Arden’s classic “Red Door” symbol and she is very clear in my mind, standing there humbly giving what she treasured and never used so I could enjoy myself. I’m sorry I didn’t go, Mom, but I still thank you. I’ll always thank you. And thank you, Lord, for men!
2) At the age of five, my dad supplied me with a gross of candy lipsticks which I smeared on myself and then ate in two weeks. As I grew older, he would follow me through department stores and drugstores as I convinced him why I needed the latest beauty items. He contended that I didn’t need makeup and, although he indulged me, sighed out of exhaustion from my whining and wrote checks for my purchases.
During my senior year of high school, my parents were handing out presents. One gift was better than the last. But my dad acted distant, something he never was. Finally he pulled his hand from behind his back with a bar of Neutrogena soap he had been hiding and said, “You’ll always be my little girl, but it’s time for me to let you grow up. I bought this myself. I hope you like it.” The fact that my father searched the aisles for Neutrogena took be aback and I cried. It wasn’t on every shelf in those days. I didn’t like it–I loved it. I loved it so much that I couldn’t use it. Many years have passed since these incidents occurred, but the joy and sweetness will remain forever.
Now, kindly share your special moments here: