The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dear Oprah Winfrey I'm Grateful That I'm Broke

Dear Oprah

How are you? I am fine.

Well, actually I’m not so fine since the stock market crashed and we lost half our life savings but I’m trying to keep positive. Why the first thing I did when I got the bad news was a visualization exercise like they suggest in The Secret. So far the only thing I can see is me eating dog food but I’ll keep on trying.

I’ve been checking your website everyday (at least until we couldn’t pay the bill anymore and the phone company cut off our Internet access) to see what you and your friend Snooze Orman might suggest. Gosh she’s smart and so money-savvy. Why just looking at her hairdo I can tell right away she saves plenty of money by not spending very much on a hairdresser.

I love her awesome suggestions like, “Cut out the things you don’t really need.” I took her advice when the cat died recently and we opted for cremation instead of some over-the-top burial. We saved oodles of money and had a moving ceremony with just the family. Things went really well until the very end when the wind came up as we were scattering Fluffy’s ashes in the park. But as I told the kids, is it really such a big deal that she ended up in our clothes and our hair? Isn’t the Universe just giving us an opportunity to carry Fluffy with us for a little while longer?

It just makes me think of all your spiritual friends who have been a real source of inspiration! When Elizabeth Lesser told one of your viewers that she should rid herself of the idea that life is supposed to be a certain way, I thought she was talking to me. I always thought my midlife reinvention would be about running a marathon or starting my own business. Who’d have guessed I’d be looking for work and reinventing myself as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

My husband’s a little concerned about what’s going to happen when my prescription for bioidentical hormones runs out and we can’t afford to get it refilled. But I’ve told him plenty of times that menopause is a natural part of a woman’s life and all those stories about out of control, hormonal 50 year-olds who bludgeon their husbands are pure fiction. I think.

That’s it for now, Oprah since I’ve got to start dinner. Oh, and that reminds me of another thing I have to be grateful for due to this silly recession. Because we can only afford to eat one meal a day, I'm losing all sorts of weight. I call it the Recession Diet. Let me know if you're interested in the details.

Best,
Karen

The Best Kept Secret Blog - My Five Seconds Of Fame

For some reason it seems important that she like my hair.

I think it's because it's been snowing or raining all the other Wednesday nights so far this semester which means I've been arriving for class with really bad hair, looking way too much like a suburban, middle-aged mom and not enough like the hip, downtown writer I'm aspiring to be.

I am thick in the throes of midlife reinvention and I have a dream - class-parent and volunteer lice lady by day, hard-hitting journalist by night. (Well, as long as I can get a babysitter, that is.)

As I navigate the mini-van through rush hour traffic on my way to class, I think that I'm looking good.

And I'm feeling good. For I have written the most brilliant article that has ever been produced by a journalism student on the face of this earth and tonight is the night I'm presenting it to the class.

Half my fellow students, I'm sure, will slam their books closed, throw their pens on their desk and declare that are just giving up - that they'll never be able to compete with the likes of me. The other half, the nice ones who have no time for sour grapes or axes to grind, will just stand up and applaud.

My accomplished instructor will love it too. Why she'll whip out her cell phone right then and there, call an editor friend at some über cool magazine, and shout for her to stop the presses - that they simply have to shift things around to accommodate my utterly engaging piece, How To Pack A Grocery Bag.

I'm early for class and the only people in the room are my instructor and one other student. We begin chatting and it turns out we all need a caffeine fix.

"Come on," says my instructor. "Let's start class five minutes late and take a field trip to the Tim Horton's across the street." I'm thrilled. I'm going for coffee with my oh-so-savvy instructor!

We chat about the weather and cold and flu season as we wait in line for our java. "This is going so well," I think to myself. "Maybe we'll become friends and get together over a glass or two of wine while we discuss writing and the publishing industry and debate which author we like better - Danielle Steele or John Grisham."

I order coffee and a couple of Tim Bits and daydream about what to serve if I end up inviting my instructor and her partner for a weekend at the cottage.

We ride the elevator back up to our floor and I think I notice my instructor eyeing the Tim Bits. I'm about to offer her one when I remember that of the many things she's published, she's perhaps best known for her recent book exploring Canada's foodscapes. I suddenly recall a passionate discussion from a class or two ago on the merits of organic food and the evils of just about everything else we can put into our mouths. I tuck the Tim Bit bag into my purse and give up on the thought of roasting weenies with my instructor at the cottage.

More students have arrived by the time we return and I'm turning to say hello as I set my coffee down and shrug out of my coat. It isn't until I hear half the class exclaim, "Ohhhh" that I realize something's wrong. I look down to see brown liquid puddling on the floor. It's coffee. My coffee. I've knocked it over and it's flowing across my desk, onto the floor and into my purse.

I'm guessing the discussions over wine are out now too.

I try to be calm as I sop up the mess with a roll of toilet paper retrieved from the Ladies room; as if spilling a full cup of coffee is an everyday thing and that I'm totally cool with it. I still have a quarter of a cup left and I drink this slowly, prolonging the feeling of being part of our intimate little coffee drinking group. When it's all gone, I even suck on the cup for a while - no one can tell it's empty with the brown plastic lid still attached.

We begin presenting our articles and finally it's my turn. Everyone reads my piece and begins scratching their criticism and feedback on the copies I've brought in. At first I sit back - I know it's good and apart from a little thing here or there, I can only expect praise. Then I notice my instructor writing something on her copy. I hear her bracelet hitting the desk again and again as she circles paragraphs and words. Then I see her bending down and retrieving something from her bag. It's a large red pencil. Is she striking something out?

At the end of the day it's no better or worse than the rest of the people in my class. No one's shouted "Stop the presses" but nor have they kicked me out of the class.

I climb into my soccer-mom mini-van and drown my disappointment in the Tim Bits I've fished from my soggy purse. I console myself by remembering that we learn more from failure than we do from success. This makes me feel a little better and I begin thinking about next week's assignment. Hmmm. . . Maybe I'll bring in cookies.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Eyebrows - The Final Frontier

Ever since 1979, when I tumbled out of the Merle Norman store with fuchsia cheekbones and four - count 'em, four! - shades of shadow gracing my eyes, I've had a love affair with make-up.

My 1980's work wardrobe included shoulder pads, pert bow ties and an eye-shadow to match every power suit in my closet. I spent an hour in the bathroom every morning during the 1990's working hard to achieve a "natural" look and even as recently as the early 2000's I was hot on the trail of the perfect shade of red lipstick.

Then things started to change.

The eye shadow was the first to go. Instead of making me look youthful and wide-eyed, it began to make me look tired and slightly clownish, like I'd lost a run-in with a tropical fish.

The lovely brown-red lipstick that I had worn for more than ten years suddenly made my mouth seem lifeless and drawn, as if I'd spent the better part of the day sucking on a rusty pipe.

And even a light application of eyeliner looked like I was wearing too much.

I had entered the "less is more" era of makeup.

And while I can't say this was entirely a bad thing - cheaper and less fuss - I sometimes missed the days when I could have a little fun with making up my face; when I could spend hours putting on make-up for a big night out on the town.

So can you really blame me for getting excited last week when I bellied-up to the new Brow Bar at a swanky, downtown department store?

I had read about this Brow Bar in our local paper when it opened. Below the picture of beautiful, lab-coat wearing 20-something girls with serious Brooke Shields brows, was a small story assuring me that all a woman needed to look polished and chic was a pair of well-groomed eyebrows.

I was downtown anyway, killing time between meetings, and figured checking out the Brow Bar couldn't do any harm. The young woman working the counter was ever so nice and before you could say "Groucho", I was on a stool in the middle of the cosmetics department getting my brows done.

Now my brows suffer from the opposite problem of the Brooke Shields clones - apparently I need more, not less, in the brow department. No tweazing nor waxing for me. I need filler and powder and all manner of grooming devices to achieve a strong and natural looking brow.

The earnest technician set to work with quick, feathery strokes that would make Picasso proud and ten minutes later, I was rushing out the door, now late for my next meeting but feeling sexy and strong, thanks to my professionally groomed brows.

I should have been tipped off by the quizzical looks I got from my associates during the meeting. At the time I just thought they were having trouble understanding my proposal but now I'm not sure.

After my meeting, I proceeded to the school to pick my daughter up at the end of her day. "Mom, are you mad at me?" she asked as she climbed in the car. I thought that was a a little strange as greetings generally go but then again, I usually am angry with the kids about one thing or another so I didn't give it much thought.

It wasn't until I got home and had a good look in the mirror that I understood the strange reactions. I looked like I had two fuzzy brown caterpillars dissecting my face.

My erstwhile brow technician had gotten carried away and while my new eyebrows were fashionably full and expertly arched, they made me look angry and puzzled, like a woman who’s favourite show is about to start and she can’t figure out how to work the remote.

So much for my eyebrows, I thought as I washed all trace off my face. At first I was disappointed - the last bastion of make-up for middle-aged women was no more. But then I got an idea. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet until I found what I was looking for, something that surely would cheer me up. My fuchsia cheek colour.