The Battle Between Venus and Mars

This weekend, a business trip that began on Friday became an opportunistic time for me to visit with my brother and Mum in San Diego.  Since she and he always come to my house in Los Angeles, for holidays, my kid's birthdays and, in the case of my Mum, for face-time with me for a week at a time, it was neat for me to go to them.  Not to mention I got to do it solo, because of the integrated business trip at my awesome new job.  Yeah, when you have been married as long as I have, a No Kids, No Husband overnight trip is perilously close to nirvana.  But, I digress.

What I want to tell you about is a conversation I had with my brother.  He's a handsome, single musician, on the fast track to famous for his amazing musical ability (check out www.banjoslim.com!) and we got into a lively discussion on the subject of.........don't laugh........mascara.

Over a couple drinks, and beef kabobs I cooked myself at The Turf Club in Golden Hill, San Diego, Mum and I were lamenting the banes of our existence.  For Mum, she has been on a years-long search for the perfect pair of white linen pants.  I mean, since I have been old enough to remember, she had dragged me through various women's departments looking for the elusive clothing.

She asked me mine, and I knew it right away.......the perfect mascara.  Just plain old black mascara yet I have spent the balance of my adulthood (and some scary black-eyeliner phases in my teens) trying to find the best balance of wand, color, texture and, for lack of a better word, lastability.  As of this writing, I search still.

My bro was almost choking on his laughter.  Mum accused him of not understanding, and trotted out the always incendiary saying, that he was from Mars and we were from Venus and he'd never understand us.  Let me tell you, he took major offense.

And it is this that prompts me to write; I feel compelled to apologize to all men everywhere for not understanding your epic search for the perfect disposable razor.

I had no idea the anguish of purchased, once-used, and discarded drugstore items shared by the hairier sex was akin to that shared by those of us with the fine, tiny lashes just looking for a boost Mother Nature did not see fit to bestow.  My brother explained that the exhaustive search conducted to find his right balance of blade, stem, and, it has to be said, "shavability" matches mine.

Another drink (or two) later and we saw eye-to-eye.  I felt his pain and he felt mine.  He may be from Mars and I may hail from Venus, but for one brief flash in time, like the harmony achieved during a solar or lunar eclipse, our planets aligned.  We knew.  We had felt the sting (no pun intended, Bro) of failed merchandise and advertisements that had never fulfilled.

Yet, it appears we haven't learned.  Mum will come and visit soon and like lambs to the slaughter, we plan to go shopping.  Where?  Probably a drugstore and a mall.  Looking for those damn pants and that friggin' mascara.  And sometime this week, my brother will dart stealthily into a CVS and, with furtive glances to either side, grab a package of pink Lady Schicks.