Bad Customer! No Lipstick!

Different Xtremes

© 2010 Leighann Lord

I’m a Girlie Girl who loves shopping. I married a Manny Man who loves sports. If I tell him I’m going to Ann Taylor, he thinks I’m visiting a friend. If I say, I’m going to the M.A.C. store he thinks I’m buying a computer.

I actually did go to the M.A.C. store recently because I was out of my second favorite lipstick: Photo. It’s a rich, beautiful brown. A great day color that looks good by itself and mixes well with others. It’s my second favorite because Xtreme, my first favorite, was discontinued by M.A.C. a few years ago. [INSERT UNLADYLIKE GROWLING AND TEETH GNASHING HERE]. Xtreme was an eye catching, ruby-reddish-burgundy that wasn’t too red, or too purple. It was perfect, so of course they discontinued it.

I’ve been on an unsuccessful hunt for a replacement for quite a while now. And while the wonderful world of lip color has been awash in glosses, tints and stains, the perfect Xtreme equivalent has been elusive.

I’m not simply going by price. It’s not necessary that I plunk down $15 for a tube of lipstick. I’ve unashamedly trolled the makeup aisles in Wal-mart, Target and K-Mart in search of the right shade. Okay, I am ashamed about going to K-Mart, since the one in my neighborhood is consistently horrible, but I’m desperate.

I’ve even ordered a couple of promising colors from Avon, but their lipsticks do not agree with me. After a few hours wear, the skin on my lips begins to peel like dried Elmer’s Glue. Very sexy.

So, I’m at the M.A.C. store buying my second favorite lipstick when the sales clerk said, “Do you need anything else?”

“No,” I said, “Not unless you’ve brought back Xtreme.”

“Ooh, no. That was a good color.”

“I know! Does M.A.C. make anything similar?” I said.

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Comparable?”

“No, not really.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

And then I had an epiphany. I often write and rail about bad customer service. And yet there I was being a bad customer. I was haranguing this poor salesman as if he were in charge of making executive level product decisions. I asked the same question multiple times in the irrational hope that he’d say, “Yes, they brought it back just for you and I have a case of it in the back. Where have you been?”

Bad customer. No lipstick.

To his credit though he was very patient with me. I guess he deals with product junkies on withdrawal all the time. Or maybe he drinks on the job to dull the pain.

At least I had the good grace to be embarrassed and apologize. I pride myself on not being a pain in the ass, at least not with strangers. That’s the kind of thing I like to save for family; people who can appreciate it and use it against me later.

Somewhat dejected, I guess I was pouting when I got home because the Manny Man said, “What’s wrong?”

“They still don’t have Xtreme.”

“Yeah, I know. The only thing on ESPN now is The World Cup.”

[Silence.]

“Um . . . ” he said, “We’re not talking about extreme sports are we?”

“No,” I said. “Lipstick.”

[Silence.]

“There’s ‘extreme’ lipstick? What does it do?”

“It’s the name of the color.”

“What color is extreme?”

“Ruby-reddish-burgundy.”

“That doesn’t sound very extreme. Why don’t they just call it ruby-reddish-burgundy?”

[Silence.]

“I’m going to watch The World Cup now.”

“I’ll be at Sephora’s.”

“Oh, ok. Tell her I said, ‘hi.’”

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian, who's style is best described as "Thinking Cap Comedy." If comedy were music, she'd be Jazz. She's George Carlin if he'd been born a Black Woman. Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

What's Wrong with Whoopi?

Making The Hater’s Hit List
© 2010 Leighann Lord

When I was a kid, my Dad told me that there are people in the world who aspire to mediocrity. I didn’t understand what he meant until I grew up and realized that he’d sugarcoated it. Not only are there people who do not aspire, but they don’t want you to strive for anything either. For whatever reason, they don’t seek to accomplish anything and belittle those who do. I met a couple of folks like this recently after a show; two old men who put me in mind of a Black Statler & Waldorf (from "The Muppet Show").

"Statler" asked me what I felt about Whoopi Goldberg. I sometimes get asked this question because people assume we are both comedians. We are not. Whoopi, is a comedic actress. This distinction isn’t very important to the general public, but it is to me. While the goal is the same – to entertain – they are different jobs with different skill sets. (Not all singers are musicians. Not all musicians are singers.) That said, I am a fan of Whoopi’s work, and have been since her one woman show. Hell, I sat through "Jumping Jack Flash."

I could tell, however, by the way that "Statler" asked the question that he didn’t want to hear my opinion as much as he wanted to share his own, so I said, "What do ‘you’ think of Whoopi?"

"I don’t like her," he said.

"How come?"

"Why does she have to look like that?"

Like what: comfortable, confident, content? The lack of quotation marks on the previous sentence means that’s what I thought, not what I said. What did happen was a noticeable arch in my left eye brow, which said, ‘What’s wrong with Whoopi?'

"All the money she has, why she can’t fix herself up?"

Right back atcha, Sunshine. Look in the mirror much? Why is it that people who judge others only by their appearance are often so very lacking in theirs? If fixing oneself up is so simple why don’t they do it? Cosmetic surgery is very affordable but I’ll settle for good hygiene. To this lot, a woman’s professional accomplishments are not nearly as important as how stylish her clothes, how perfect her hair or how high her heels. I mean really, why pick on Whoopi when Larry King is disintegrating right before our eyes?

Then "Waldorf" said, "What do you think of Oprah?" Wary I said, "What do YOU think of her?"

"I don’t like her."

I kinda saw that coming but I wasn’t sure why. If we’re judging on appearance, then Oprah is very well put together. I was afraid to ask, but I had to know, "What’s wrong with Oprah?"

"She tells all her business," he said. "Why she got to tell it all? She don’t know how to keep anything private."

No. No, she doesn’t, which would be really problematic if she worked for Homeland Security, but she’s a talk show host. Salacious stories and tales of woe are valuable currency in our culture. In a weird way it’s almost admirable that Oprah’s not asking her guests to reveal any more or less then she does about herself. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine seems fair.

Of all the reasons not to like Oprah, I’m not sure that loose lips would have made my top 10. At the end of the day, she’s not dishing my dirt, and I don’t recall ever seeing "Statler" and/or "Waldorf" on the show.

I should have brushed off their curmudgeonly comments, but I didn’t like the direction of the conversation. Were there any single, successful black women whom they did like? Who was next on their haters hit list, Condoleezza?

But the human brain is amazing. Sometimes it shuts off or reinterprets experiences that it deems too painful to deal with. My brain did me this solid by offering up the possibility that these Black men – either of whom could have been my Father or Grandfather – weren’t really disparaging successful Black women while talking to a Black woman. No. They ... just ... didn’t like famous one-named people. Who knows, maybe they also disliked Prince or Buddha or Hitler ... Oh, wait. Hitler was single.

I know it’s impossible to please everybody but you’d at least like to have "family" in your corner. But not everybody gets that. Maybe that’s why some people aspire to mediocrity so as to keep peace with the ne' er do wells around them. But to quote another successful sister, Mary J. Blige: "It doesn’t matter if you go along with their plan. They’ll never be happy because they’re not happy with themselves."

I’m not one to go looking for ill will, but I’m actually hoping I make it onto "the list." Maybe it’ll mean I’m doing something right.

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian, who's style is best described as "Thinking Cap Comedy." If comedy were music, she'd be Jazz. She's George Carlin if he'd been born a Black Woman. Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

Another Golden Girl Gone

“I Want to be Treated Better Than You”

© 2010 Leighann Lord

When I heard that a third Golden Girl, Rue McClanahan, had passed away tears sprang to my eyes. And by tears I mean I was sobbing at Panera Bread into my cinnamon french toast bagel. As news spread the text messages, emails and Face Book wall posts of condolence came in from friends who know that I’m a hard core Golden Girls fan.

Betty White, The Last Golden Girl Standing said, “It hurts more than I ever thought it would.” I know what she means, especially since Blanche Devereaux was not my favorite Golden Girl. In the “Which Golden Girl Would You Be” game I am Dorothy. Smart, sarcastic, acerbic, socially awkward and flawed, Ms. Zbornak is my hero.


My Husband who, thanks to me, has a Jeopardy-esque familiarity with the show said,

“I think you’d make a good Sophia.”

“Why, because I’m cranky?”

“No,” he said, “Because you can do a dead on and heart felt ‘Picture it, Sicily 1922 . . . ’ Could you ever be Blanche?” he asked.

“No, never! I’d rather be Rose. I’d sooner be simple than slutty."

Not so deep down, I’m a prude so playing easy would be seriously hard. An integral part of the Golden Girls team, Blanche’s uber-promiscuity was fun to watch, but difficult to emulate.


One of my favorite Blanche scenes was when she was dating guest star Ken Howard (who some of us may remember as The White Shadow). He was newly divorced, and unaccustomed to the dating scene, so he got up to speed by reading women’s magazines. What ensued was an episode full of horrible dates where he didn’t open Blanche’s door, pull out her chair or pay for her dinner. When she confronted him on his boorish behavior, he said according to the magazines women wanted to be treated the same as men. And Blanche ever so sweetly said, "I don't want to be treated the same as you, I want to be treated better than you." I loved it! Bravo, Blanche! Female chauvinism in action!


I actually got to see three of the four Golden Girls in person (Rue, Betty and Bea; Estelle was still alive then, but ill) when they did a DVD signing at Barnes & Noble. I stood in line for hours. There were velvet ropes, hand stamps and rock concert style security. When I finally made it to the front of the line, Rue – as if in character – was the epitome of southern grace and charm.


Rue and I crossed paths again when a Golden Girls gift basket was one of the featured items at a silent auction benefitting animal rescue organization, Bobbi & The Strays. The basket, donated by Rue – an animal lover – included two seasons of The Golden Girls a signed photo of Rue and an actual outfit she wore on the show. I had to have it. I don’t know what proper silent auction etiquette is, but I’m sure I broke it. I hovered by the table, making sure no one outbid me. I was leaving with my Golden Girls gift basket or I’d know the reason why. It now sits proudly on my bookshelf.


This has been a bad year for TV sitcom icons. We’ve lost Dixie Carter (Designing Women), Gary Coleman (Different Strokes) and now Rue. I’m not sure I can take anymore. Can someone please keep an eye on Bill Cosby?

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian. June 26 - July 5 she'll be performing for the troops in Kosovo through Armed Forces Entertainment. Check out her other upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

Untidy Consequences:

Did the Oil Spill Start at Dunkin Donuts?

© 2010 Leighann Lord

Okay, I’m a neat freak. I’m at peace with that and I know it colors how I view the world. Where people see cold and sterile, I see order and cleanliness. What people call “lived in” and “homey,” I call chaos. How people choose to keep their homes is their business, but the space we share with each other comes with certain obligations. Rule number one: Don’t be a slob.

I was sitting in Dunkin Donuts, enjoying a cheap cup of coffee when a father came in with four kids – three boys and a girl – all under the age of 10. I usually only see moms saddled with such a sizeable brood so I guess it must’ve been Dad’s weekend with the kids. I braced myself for pandemonium but kudos to Dad: all of the kids were reasonably well behaved. There was a wee bit of running around, and misuse of the outdoor voice in an indoor setting but nothing egregious.

Unfortunately, no points on the dismount. After such a promising start, Dad and company walked out of Dunkin Donuts leaving behind a filthy table littered with used napkins, cups and crumbs. Yeah, I know. It’s Dunkin Donuts. There’s a guy who wanders out every so often to wipe off the tables and mop the floor, but damn. If you have to clean up after your dog, shouldn’t you have to clean up after your own kids?

Isn’t it part of the unspoken public code of conduct that in fast food restaurants without wait service we’re supposed to bus our own tables? Dad blew a teachable moment, instead showing his kids that it’s ok to make a mess and walk away. Maybe they have household help at home to do the dirty work, but on this occasion Mr. Belvedere was elsewhere.

Fostering a disregard for the condition of our shared space has long term consequences. When these kids go to college, they’re going to make lousy roommates. If they ever plan to do a Spring break abroad, they might want to skip Singapore. In 1994, 18-year-old American, Michael Fay, was sentenced to a four-stroke caning for theft and vandalism. I know. Slovenliness is not the same but who’s to say it’s not the gateway? Today – with Dad’s blessing – the kids are leaving the table without cleaning it off. Tomorrow they’re littering and destroying public property. And why not? Someone else will clean it up.

What kind of spouses will these kids become? Most likely bitter and divorced. A recent study by The London School of Economics found that divorce is “less likely if the husband helps with the housework.” Oh, well. If the research is right, someday these boys will spend an afternoon in a donut shop with their kids, leaving a load of litter for someone else to look after. On the bright side the girl will make some pigsty guy very happy.

I worry not that these kids will grow up to just be slobs sure to get their 15 minutes of fame on reality shows like “Clean House” or “Hoarders,” but worse. They’ll become oil industry executives who play fast and loose with the rules. They’ll make a catastrophic, ecological mess that they’ll have no idea how to fix, making all of us the defacto Dunkin Donuts clean up guy.

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian. June 25 - July5 she'll be performing for the troops in Kosovo! Check out her other upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

Teeing Off With The Gob Stopper

© 2010 Leighann Lord

I don’t know anything about golf. Well, that’s not true. I know that adulterous scandals notwithstanding, Tiger Woods has made the sport perplexingly popular. I also know that I’ve actively despised golf ever since I was forcibly exposed to it in high school. On the unwanted gym class scale, I’m not sure what I hated more: track, square dancing or golf. Hmm . . . golf.

So it is in rather surreal astonishment that I find myself going to a driving range. My husband has recently taken up golf. Even after nine years of marriage I still dig the guy and like doing things with him, so I’m golfing. Well, I haven’t actually had to go to a golf course yet. That would cut into my mall time.

At my first outing to the range I was content to sit on the bench and watch my Husband hit the ball.

“Do you want to hit a few?” he said.

“Um . . . sure,” I said, looking up from my paper. “Why not?”

“Do you know which club you want to use?”

“Yes. A seven.”

“Really?” he said, impressed with my quick and decisive response. “How come?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I just like the number seven.”

I’ve never watched a golf match, so the best I could do was imitate what little I could remember from Caddy Shack. Let’s just say my form was a little off. I swung the club like it was a baseball bat. And it would have been a home run if I had actually hit the ball. Swing and a miss.

“Two more and I strike out, right?”

“That’s baseball,” he said.

“Oh.”

“May I?” he said, offering help.

“Yes.”

“Ok: bend your knees, keep your eye on the ball and line it up with your left nipple.”

So that’s why men have nipples. I was still missing the ball, but now I looked better doing it.

I barely passed golf in high school, and my Husband hasn’t played since the Clinton administration. Watching us futz around with our discount Craig’s List clubs must have been very painful for the older gentleman in the bay next to us. Despite posted signs that say “No Teaching” he came over to give us a few pointers. He didn’t mention the nipple thing but he did tell us to stop bending the left elbow.

A few more practice swings and I actually began connecting with the ball.

“You’re pretty good at this,” my Husband said.

Of course I am, I thought, because I have no desire to be. I only went to the range to spend time with my Best Guy, but I have to admit there is something surprisingly satisfying about hearing the loud thwack of the club against the ball, and watching it sail far and away across the field. (Bonus points if it hits the ball cart.)

“Do you want to try another club?”

“Okay.”

I’m learning that clubs have names as well as numbers indicating vitally important, and specific functions. There are drivers, putters, wedges . . . My Husband knows that I’m not bothering keeping it all straight, but it tickles him if I ask.

“What’s this one called?”

“A trap shooter.”

“Ha-ha!” I thought he was joking. “What’s that, the club you hit someone in the mouth to make them be quiet?”

“No,” he said. “That’s a gob stopper.”

And thus, my club of choice was born.

If I had any sense, I’d stop now. I know me and this could easily get out of hand. Whenever I do something, even if I don’t care much about it, I want to do it well. Such is the fate of an achievement oriented, obsessive-compulsive, workaholic, perfectionist, control freak.

For instance, I can’t help but notice the transferrable skills from my martial arts practice. True, there’s no kicking, punching, or wrestling going on at the golf range – at least not on the days that I’ve been there – but proper breathing is important.

• Breathing helps you focus and relieve the tension in your body. Under stress, people tend to hold their breath as if they’re waiting for something to happen. That something is usually passing out.
• Specifically, breathe out on the strike. That exhalation seems to put a little extra power in the swing, the same way it does on a punch.
• Relax your shoulders. I got this advice early on in kick boxing because I was holding my arms like a cranky new born baby. Amusing, but not very intimidating unless my opponent happened to be a sleep-deprived parent.
• And lastly, even when frustrated, it’s probably not a good idea to kick the golf bag, even if it was only $50 on eBay.

I’m worried I might start drawing comparisons to other sports I enjoy, like shopping (persistence, patience, pacing). Worse, it’ll be another reason to shop. It’s all fun and games until you start picturing yourself next to a sexy red leather golf bag with matching shoes.

Yes, if I keep this up, it’ll be harder to maintain that I have no interest in golf. But what’s not to love about lining up nipple shots, and thwacking the ball with your gob stopper? My high school gym class was never this much fun.

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian. May 22 she'll be performing at Concord Baptist Church in Brooklyn. Check out her other upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

My Haitian Vacation

© 2010 Leighann Lord

“You’re going where?” my parents said. They had confused and weary expressions on their faces when I told them I was going on a short (three-day) tour with Armed Forces Entertainment to perform for the troops doing humanitarian work in Haiti. Several questions brewed on their brows:
Didn’t you just get home from Iraq?
Can’t you just tell jokes in seedy night clubs like a normal comedian?
Do we still have the authority to ground you?
Yes, no and no.

Before I could baby-wipe all the dust off my combat boot style Converses, friend and fellow comedian Carole Montgomery called and asked if I wanted to entertain the troops in Haiti. Not one to let the pages in my passport go to waste, I said, “Yes.”

The earthquake and the plight of the Haitian people have faded from the front pages of newspapers and web sites, but humanitarian efforts are still ongoing. As part of Operation Unified Response, several branches of the United States Military went to Haiti’s aid in the aftermath of the devastating January 12 earthquake that crippled the capital of Port au Prince.

Down from a 21,000 high, those who remain are now busy relocating people to safer areas ahead of the coming rainy and hurricane seasons. The conditions are austere. The heat and humidity are debilitating. The boredom is palpable. At the end of the day they don’t return to home and hearth, but to camp and tent.

Tent living is great because it quickly reminds you of all the things you take for granted like a comfortable bed and privacy. The womens tent sported cots for beds and strung clothes-pinned sheets for privacy. On the plus side, our tent was one of the few with air conditioning, which kept us cool and mosquito free. I soon learned however that while 60 degrees feels good when you just walk in from the heat, it feels down right frigid in the middle of the night when you’re trying to sleep. I zipped my sleeping bag up past my ears to block out the sound of Morpheus’ chattering teeth.

The mosquito situation was serious enough to require being put on anti-Malaria medication. Malaria? Seriously? I’m so spoiled. In the Northeastern United States we’ve pretty much hunted, trapped and sprayed our bugs into submission. But in Haiti the bugs are bold. I can’t be sure, but I think one asked me out.

In addition to the mosquitoes, there was Maggie, a beautiful light brown, mixed-breed dog. She was nothing but skin and bones when the soldiers arrived, but the rules are very clear: no pets. So nobody owned Maggie, nobody fed her, and this same group of nobodies bought her a flea collar. Nobody was also working on bringing her back to the U.S. Maggie owns everybody.

Three-minute combat showers were the order of the day. I know. That’s barely enough time to sing all the verses of the “Umbrella” song. But I didn’t mind a short shower especially since it was cold. I didn’t mean to take a cold shower but the water never warmed up while I was shivering under it. I wished I could have skipped it but the living conditions made good hygiene super-uber critical. And to be honest, I didn’t really enjoy smelling like an odd combination of sweat, bug repellent and hand sanitizer.

On the bright side, a cold shower makes you ask yourself life’s big, hard questions:

I don’t smell that bad do I?
Can I just use baby wipes?
Can get away with Febreezing myself?

Yes, no and no.

The military made sure we were fed, and we never went hungry, but it wasn’t fancy. We had at least one cooked meal supplemented with MREs (meals ready to eat), heater meals, cold cereal, and assorted snack food. I lived on apples, V-8 and Gardetto Chips while dreaming of yogurt, salad and meat I could visibly identify.

I don’t know how they managed it, but the camp’s Ladies Only porta potty was great. Perhaps the testosterone ban had something to do with it. The Ladies’ porta potty was well lit, smelled good and had an ample supply of multi-ply Charmin toilet paper, proving once again, that where there is a woman, there is a way.

Speaking of women, I had the pleasure of working with three of the Miami Dolphins Cheerleaders. They made up the other half of The Hijinks and High Kicks (Punch Lines & Pom Poms) Tour. In the interests of full disclosure I have to admit that my inner teenager, who never got to be a cheerleader, did not want to like these women. Something primordial from the dark side of my soul assumed they’d be no more than vapid wastrels. Apparently my dark side has an extensive vocabulary.

But these women did not fit the evil stereotype at all. Yes, they were young and beautiful, but they were also smart, talented, organized and hard working. With college degrees, full time jobs and post-cheer leading career plans already in the works, I was impressed. It also helped that I was mistaken once or twice for being one of the cheerleaders, which went a long way to placating my inner insecure adolescent.

On this very short trip we did three shows, all outside, a top truck flatbeds. The last show was at the U.S. Embassy which gave us the chance to drive through the very crowded streets of Port au Prince. We saw the poverty mixed in with the damage, so much devastation afflicted on those who could least afford it.

It was heartbreaking to see the Haitian children begging outside the Embassy gate for money, but we weren’t allowed to give them any. We were told the money would end up going to the “handlers,” the men who sent the kids out to beg like a real life Oliver Twist.

Humor can’t heal everything, but and for a moment I wished that I could tell jokes in Creole. “Bonswa! Sak Pase?”

The children reminded me of what I take most for granted: my family; my amazing parents who raised me to follow my dreams, but are sometimes terrified of where that takes me. “You’re going where?” They asked me that every day for a week leading up to my trip as if the answer or my mind would change. I’m sure they’d be a lot happier if I said I was going to seek fame and fortune in Los Angeles, but L.A. scares me in a way that war zones and natural disasters don't.

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian. May 14 she'll be headlining at Bananas Comedy Club in Hasbrouck Heights, NJ. Check out her other upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.