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Polish American

"But you'll get nail polish on your dress."

"I promise I'll be careful."

Famous last words between my mother and my 5-year-old self. I was desperate to try painting my nails with anything other than clear nail polish. I had my sights set on her bottle of red. My mom's signature nail color was a brownish raisin. But she kept a handful of pinks and reds in her bathroom cabinet. Long story short, she gave in to my begging, and she was right. I ruined my pretty yellow dress. But I unlocked the mystery of nail color that day, and there was no turning back. Along with my Barbie eyeshadow palette, I managed to get (probably for Christmas) two colors of Tinkerbell nail polish in Reddy or Not, and Tickle Me Pink. They were latex paints that peeled right off, but after the yellow dress fiasco, they would have to suffice while I honed my craft.

The first time Mom let me purchase my own real nail polish, it was a fantastic pearlescent fuchsia from L'Oreal. I shook the bottle as we walked through the grocery store. I suppose I got a little overzealous in my shaking, because before I knew it, the bottle slipped out of my hands and broke in a million pieces. A stockperson rushed over to mop up the surprisingly large violet puddle. We got another bottle of the same color, and mom held it for me until we checked out.

My neighbor Angie had gold, silver, and multicolored glitter polish from Wet 'N Wild. She would paint one of your nails for 10¢, or a whole hand for a quarter. Luckily, she didn't charge extra for doing a variety of colors. I couldn't possibly decide on just one. In an effort to create more punky polish, I went home and tried adding a drop of blue food coloring to my clear polish. when I saw little bubbles of blue refusing to mingle with the clear lacquer, all I got was a hard lesson in the difference bewteen water soluble dye and enamel. I obviously needed more colors in my arsenal.

My summer break interests matured quickly from getting a Bomb Pop from the Good Time Store to scoring some nail color from Osco Drug. Jenny Frey and I would walk a mile, past Itsa Italian Ice, past the Zia playground, straight to the makeup counter at Osco. We spent hours perusing the racks of color. I distinctly remember the month Maybelline came out with three crazy summer colors. There was a créme peach, custard yellow, and a translucent periwinkle. They had been advertised heavily in Seventeen. I wasn't really crazy about any of them individually, but I acquired each with my hard-earned trash-removal allowance. It was many years before Hard Candy came out with comparable shades.

I bought three bottles of Hard Candy (blue, yellow, and pink) at Buffalo Exchange my first year of college. To this day I'm suspicious they weren't the genuine article. The colors were horrible. I might as well have bought white-out. I'll never forget the navy blue and vampire purple (neither with a hint of shimmer or girly-ness) I bought a year later on the clearance rack at Express. I went back the next day for two versions of green, one called Grass Stain, which was the inspiration for the name of a Midori cocktail we enjoyed in college. The dark colors cooled my nail-biting ways, and I liked the idea that I and Alanis Morissette wore similar polishes.

Through the years, I've developed an understanding of the viscosity and drying time of most storebought brands. However, I'm not brand-loyal. The day I bought a second bottle of Cover Girl's Mauve Mist (in my opinion, the undisputed all-around most perfect polish ever), I learned the sad truth that cosmetic companies can change formulas willy-nilly. The color was off by a shade or two, and I've never found a satisfying substitition for that original bottle of pearlescent perfection. Although I think my ideal avocation is to name nail polishes, the names of colors don't move me to purchase, especially. That is, with the exception of Lippman's Happy Birthday and my newest fascination, Illamasqua's Milf, which is the genesis for this blog.

When I moved from Las Cruces to Chicago, I had to fit my life into my car, and found myself in need of a grand purge. My 200+ nail polishes could be replaced, right? When I threw them in that dumpster, along with numerous board games, jewelry, and knick-knacks, I cried. Each bottle represented a moment in my life. A reward for a good grade, a soothing device when a boy broke my heart, or the perfect pink that made me feel like a girl. I said goodbye and started over. I read an article about detoxing your cosmetics yesterday. The author talked about her voluminous collection of glosses and their sentimental value, such as her 6-year old wedding lipgloss. I understood completely. She pointed out that lip gloss is the cosmetic equivalent to a woman's shoe collection. They pile up for no reason. With my 2-3 bottle-a-week addiction, I'm definitely the Carrie Bradshaw of nail polish, and no, I don't think I have a problem.

Silent House

I bit off more than I could chew this year. As a dedicated crafter, I feel guilty shopping for gifts. Before you roll your eyes, I don't crochet neon orange plant hangers for my family. I attempt to make useful, memorable, unisex gifts. Primarily a knitter, it takes a great deal of ingenuity and timing to knit items that will be useful to the family members who live in warm climates. Strangely enough, the weather was perfect for the pair of socks most people got this year. I became a sock machine over the summer, and with two people left on my list, I decided I was ready to take over the mysterious family heirloom stocking.

Since the 1940's, ostensibly, my great aunt knitted a new Christmas stocking for every member of the family. The stockings are identical, except for the back. Each person gets an embroidered line from 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, starting with the father, followed my the mom, first born, and so on. When a baby was born, or a marriage took place, you knew a stocking was in the making. They were mostly perfect, but there were little handmade variations. My brother's was slightly smaller than the rest of the family's, and our dad's had a calf panel of red that didn't quite match the rest. My great aunt passed away about 15 years ago, and with her went the secret of the stocking. How I wish my childhood self had been more inclined to sit with her and my grandmother and learn the art of conjuring a garment from single strand of yarn. When I become critical of my own creations, I try to remember how much our family loves their stockings, despite their imperfections.

Years ago, during my first knitting lesson, I asked my teacher if she could help me map out this stocking. She told me it was a little early, but when I was ready, she'd be happy to help. That was 2006, and these days I can follow a pattern pretty well on my own, so I borrowed one of the stockings from my mom, and took a look. I was lost. There was all this intarsia, and I didn't feel confident about it. Rather than just ask for help, I stubbornly studied articles and videos, and experienced some major trial and error. I knew I could follow a pattern, but how to find it? A Google image search of "Christmas stocking" amazingly lead me to a picture of our family heirloom. I contacted the creator, and begged for her charity. She generously handed over the pattern after I described my situation. More weeks of blunders and frustration, but I refused to ask for help. Looking back, I think I wanted to keep this project in the family. This ability was in my blood, I just had to tap into it. Somehow, I got through that first panel. Then the next. The final was easiest of all. All I needed was the embroidery, and to weave in the loose ends. The stocking was done.

I just sat there looking at it. I hung it up on my bookshelf, right next to the old stocking I'd used as a model, like clones. I wanted to show someone. I wanted my great aunt and my grandmother to see it. I wanted them to turn the stocking inside out and run their fingers over the woven ends. I wanted them to see that they'd finally passed the torch, and I could take it from here. There's a song called Silent House by the Dixie Chicks about a family member slipping into Alzheimer's Disease. A little heavy, I know, but the lyrics played in my mind, "Everything that you made by hand; Everything that you know by heart; And I will try to connect; All the pieces you left; I will carry it on; And let you forget." I'd never felt such relief, completion, or emotion over a single knitting project. Hours before, Marky had fallen asleep on the couch next to me. But I woke him to show him my masterpiece. He sat with me, staring at the 25-year-old prototype and the 25-minute-old creation. Then he patted my knee, and told me it was time for bed. I finished the stocking late in the evening, the last day of November.

The next morning, my mom called to tell me that my grandmother had passed away. Most of the family got to visit Grammie during Thanksgiving. The general consensus was that she held on long enough to say goodbye to everyone. I think a little part of her stuck around to see my stocking finished.