Let’s start with the makeup. The base, actually. I don’t wear makeup anymore. Stopped caring when I had infant twins. Like, seriously, eyeliner does not help bleariness.
But I did still wear base for a number of years, and concealer, whenever I went out. Then my tube of base emptied along with my bank account after the 2008 recession and it didn’t seem to me that what needed replenishing was my makeup.
My daughters are girlie girls. Hair and makeup people. They have “skincare routines,” and eye shadow palettes, and watch youtube videos of what to wear and how to match and all the other stuff they use to talk about with my mother.
So, I called them. “I need a base for these awards. What should I get.”
Pictures flew into my phone, carefully curated by my daughters, who gathered info on my needs. Needs? To cover my face? They explained words I thought I understood, like “full” and “coverage.”
Hell, these were journalism awards. Full coverage is what we do, right?
My kids, though, were in Chicago. I was in Vegas. Makeup has to be tried. Color matching and all that.
This brought on panic attack number one.
Shopping for makeup is intimidating. When I was a teen/young woman not knowledgeable of/comfortable with my sexuality, it was the one place where I felt absolutely certain that something was terribly wrong with me. Hell, the men who waited on me were more feminine than I was, and I felt their judgment like the wrath of Joan Crawford with a wire hanger.
But I had to buy base, so I went in. Showed pictures my daughters sent me. Breathed.
The people at Ulta were nice, but I think they were still judging me for having a panic attack.
This entire nomination was, for me, the perfect excuse to take my daughters to New York. They had never been. They both graduated from a theatre high school, and one still works in theatre. They have seen musicals, but never on Broadway.
Delaney, my foodie, scoured reviews to figure out the best places to go. I kept hitting refresh on ticket prices for the shows we wanted to see (Parade and Hadestown, with last-minute rush tickets for Leopoldstadt). Dixon sat on FaceTime with me when I was at Ulta. Cheering me on.
At one point, Dixon had a dress crisis, in the form of she didn’t have one nice enough to wear to an awards ceremony. Which led to more pictures flying into my phone, along with a plea to bring the shoes she had worn to prom that were in her room in Vegas. Cinderella shoes, I kid you not. Sparkly. I couldn’t believe a child of mine owned shoes like this.
In the email reminder the day before the awards, they mentioned dress code. “Business attire.” Oops. Did I miss this? Both of my girls had “cocktail” not “business” attire. I had pants and an awesome shirt I bought when I was with Delaney in Chicago a few months ago. You will see it sometime if you actually know me. It’s my “nice” shirt, and I will undoubtedly wear it whenever I go to something “nice.”
But we were already in New York, and the girls had already brought their dresses, and I had a shirt I would never wear to the office, and makeup that had to be administered.
This brought on panic attack number two.
I think the panic attack was about just going to the awards, but, it manifested in makeup.
Dixon steered me into a room with good light, told me to breathe. I put my face forward, and allowed my child to brush it.
And here’s where things got weird. Because as Dixon was brushing base on my face, examining every pore, taking such good care, I started to cry.
I have said for the last 20 years that my mother always wanted a daughter, and didn’t get one till I gave her two. I said this in front of my mother, who would laugh.
My mother loved me, but I was not what she anticipated in girl child. The first time she and I were in New York, I was in college, studying theatre, and we had a furious fight over whether or not I would wear jeans to a show. She won the argument. And lost me. For a time.
But when I was on the radio, after having moved back to Vegas with her granddaughters, she listened to every show. She was amazed at how good I was. Then she was apologetic about not knowing that before. And then she sent me away.
“You’re too good for this place. You need to be somewhere that appreciates your talent.”
I went away. I came back. She died.
And in the moment before the awards, as my makeup was being administered, I suddenly realized that Dixon and I were not the only two people in that room. And I cried.
Which both touched and annoyed Dixon, because she hadn’t put on the finishing powder yet and the tears would ruin my base.
When we walked into the ballroom, it became immediately clear that either the Si Newhouse people - who gave out the awards - were unclear about what “business attire” meant, or we were unclear about what “business attire” looked like in national journalism circles. It was cocktail. Lots of suits and slinky dresses. Lots of shoes like Dixon’s. And Cinderella’s.
I quickly downed two rum and Sprites.
Like… downed. Chugged. I don’t usually drink. But I am appreciative sometimes for the use of alcohol.
These were national awards. Katy Tur and her husband, Tony Dokoupil, were hosting. Eric Wemple - who won in my category of journalism criticism - writes for the Washington Post. The Times’ Nicholas Confessore was schmoozing to my right. He and his colleague, Karen Yourish won for their pieces on the dangers of Tucker Carlson. Six people from The Times - who, Dixon noted, were all white men (she also noted this particular species made up most of the room) - won for their pieces on Russia’s disinformation machine.
When we sat down at our table - yes it was DINNER - someone sitting with us saw my name tag with “finalist” on it, and asked who I worked for.
“I work for myself, actually.”
“You work for yourself and you’re a finalist here,” she said, impressed.
Indeed. Yes. I was the only one of that particular species in the room. I mean, there were freelancers. But they were connected freelancers. East Coast journalism connected freelancers.
I have no idea how I got in that room. But I will say this. I was sitting between the two most amazing people I have ever met. And I used the opportunity to introduce myself to people who are doing good work.
We spent the next few days traipsing around New York, eating amazing and expensive food, seeing shows. And, to my surprise, I wore makeup to each one of them. With my daughters on either side of me.
Again, thanks to everyone who contributed to making this trip happen.
Thank you. I've come to terms with the feels. Which is why I can write about it.
Thank you. For everything.