I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Cold cream

When I was little, probably a toddler or so, spring and summer nights were special times spent with my mother. If you are lucky, you may remember getting your spring pajamas. I always got little blue ones. What were they made of, polyester? Cotton? Who knows. All I know is that they were awesome.

Now the only way that these memories are fused into my brain is because of my mother's makeup. Makeup, you say? Yes, makeup. Let's just say my mother more than the average suburban housewife. The base of her makeup was water, fire, and locust-proof. She didn't just wear a little blush and maybe some eyeliner. No, this was all-out Hollywood movie set, studio light-proof coverage. So, hence, this sort of cake requires lots of effort to take off. You're talking, a hundred years of paint layers on door molding.

After dinner, my sister and I, let's call her Jennifer, would get our pj's on and climb into my mother's bed. She would get out her tissues, cotton balls and her giant vat of cold cream. I can still remember the smell of that cold cream. I am a male, so I don't know if it all smells the same. I imagine it does. My mother bought the most expensive makeup, lotions, and creams you could buy. When she left this earth, her skin was flawless.

As mom would start removing all of her eye makeup, she would tell us stories about our older siblings. You know, how, let's call him Al, would make the rest of the kids give him their money for some scheme of his or some other mean thing he came up with.

We would laugh until bedtime. And look forward to doing it again the next night.