You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl

by Rivenbark, Celia

  I wanted Claire to wait in line with me at Walmart, where there was a line of a couple dozen people smelling of cigarette smoke, fried fish, and desperation. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much what it would smell like if you could bottle my twenties. Starter marriage, small town, long story, you get the idea.

  And it never fails that when you finally get to the cashier, you’re behind yet another grown adult who is slowly and laboriously writing out a check that is decorated with Disney characters. They must then fish out a couple of forms of ID while, once again, I scratch my noggin and wonder why they don’t just use a debit card.

  To these fellow travelers on life’s journey, may I just say that I totally get that someone told you that someone told them that someone else told their cousin who once worked as a security guard at a bank that debit cards aren’t safe and that there are hordes of crooks out there waiting to get ahold of your PIN and steal your identity. But trust me, nobody really wants to be you. If you think about it, it’s pretty egotistical of you to think so.

  Face it. You’re a woman in your fifties and you have Disney princesses parading across your antique legal tender. If somebody’s going to get her ID stolen, it’s probably somebody way cooler than you.

  Back in August, when I should’ve begun my shopping, the merchandise selection was probably better. Those purple leopard-print UGGs the Princess was pining for somehow morphed into black vinyl closed-toe bedroom shoes with a nifty red-plaid lining. And, yes, she was pissed. It didn’t even help that I’d scrawled “Team Edward” on one toe and “Team Jacob” on the other. Nothing could quite eliminate that nursing home vibe. I was so busted.

  For Duh there was, of course, only one choice by the time I got around to doing my Christmas shopping: Burger King’s new Flame meat-scented cologne was a steal at just $3.99 plus tax. The silver spray bottle embossed with a red heart is perfect for any man who wants to wear, as Burger King brags, “the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat.” I swear I am not making this up.

  You might wonder why Burger King is getting into the fragrance business, but I say why not? It’s not like the whole fast-food thing has worked out that well for them.

  Besides, Celine Dion and David Beckham sell their cheap smell’um at Walmart, so why not the ubiquitous and somewhat pervy Burger King? And Flame is a whole lot easier to say than something classy that has inserts in fancy magazines like Acqua Di Gio Pour Homme, which, if my high school French is correct, and I’m fairly certain it is, means “Water of God for My Homies.” Yeah, I’m bilingus.

  Burger King saved my 98-percent-fat bacon by rolling out Flame in time for the holidays.

  The commercial featured the comically big-headed, spray-tanned King peddling his cologne while wearing only a crown and a faux fur loincloth as Barry White-ish music plays in the background. Nah, none of that is weird.

  And while some have said this cologne gig was just a clever Christmas marketing gimmick for BK, others actually like the smell of Flame. None other than The Honorable Kathie Lee Gifford herself squealed her approval after spritzing a reluctant cameraman with Flame on her After the Real Today Show, The Part That No One Watches. It’s only a matter of time before Frank Gifford introduces his new signature scent for the holidays: Old Man’s Stinky Football Jersey.

  A lot of people find the King completely creepy but Burger King is loyal to its mascot and even exploits his royal weirdness. When he’s not dousing himself in Flame and offering to “set the mood no matter what mood you’re in the mood for” (say whaaaat?), the King is at the center of a breakfast menu ad campaign that includes, or did I just dream this, a commercial in which he crawls into bed with a startled young man and cheerfully offers him a “Meat’normous” sandwich.

  Pass.

  We shouldn’t be surprised by the odd ad campaign, given an earlier one for Whopper Virgins, in which real-life Thai villagers, rural Romanian farmers, and tundra-dwellers from Greenland are asked to compare the Whopper to a Big Mac from McDonald’s.

  The commercials make me feel mildly uncomfortable, rather like the painful moments on Survivor when the air-headed contestants try to look honestly interested during the obligatory segment when they must interact with island natives and visit holy shrines and stuff.

  In the BK commercials, the bemused villagers prefer the Whopper (duh) but I think that’s probably only because somebody threw in a few cases of Flame.

  So, Christmas was kind of a bust in the present department this year. Duh wasn’t nearly as taken with the ironic nature of his gift as I thought he would be. And the Princess is still pouting over her nursing home-slash-vampire shoes.

  As we gathered around the TV to watch Life yet again on Christmas night, I reminded both of them that Christmas isn’t about presents. It’s about being together as a family to celebrate Jesus’ birth and to remember the true spirit of the season. Of course, this didn’t go over as well as you might imagine, since I was, at that selfsame moment, absentmindedly twirling my present, a just over one full carat diamond eternity ring (Score! At last!) on my left ring finger. When I opened it on Christmas morning, the first thing I said to Duh, because we’d just seen the movie Blood Diamond and had discussed its globally and socially responsible message, was “Is this a blood diamond? Because I want to make absolutely sure that this is 100 percent cruelty-free before I put it on my hand.” Duh looked real confused. Apparently he’d forgotten all about the movie in the week and a half since we’d seen it.

  “I-I-I-’m not really sure … . I guess so … . I hope so … .” He looked downright scared.

  I let him twist in the wind for another second or so before I busted out laughing.

  “Oh, honey, I’m just messin’ wid ya. I don’t care if you had to cut off Leo DiCaprio’s head to get this thing, it’s FREAKIN’ GORGEOUS!!!”

  Duh beamed and the smell of flame-broiled meat filled the living room. I’m pretty sure we can all agree on one thing: It’s a wonderful thing that Duh was born.

  Now, because I do want to give something to all y’all, I’m going to share my Can’t Miss Christmas Morning Breakfast Strata recipe. Y’all know me: It’s super good and super easy.

  CHRISTMAS MORNING BREAKFAST STRATA-GY

  6 cups cubed French bread (1 loaf, usually)

  1 pound sausage (I like Jimmy Dean sage but you can

  use any flavor you prefer), cooked and drained

  2 cups shredded sharp cheddar (just buy it pre-shredded; it’s Christmas. Don’t you have a bike to assemble or something?)

  2 green onions, chopped (yes, tops, too)

  1 quart half-and-half

  9 large eggs

  1 teaspoon dry mustard

  1 teaspoon salt

  Pepper, hot sauce and/or Worcestershire sauce to taste

  Grease a good-size rectangular casserole dish with butter. Spread bread cubes evenly in the dish. Top with (in order) sausage, cheese, and chopped onions, sprinkling each evenly over bread cubes.

  Lightly mix together half-and-half, eggs, mustard, salt, and spices. Pour liquid mixture over bread/sausage/cheese, cover with foil and let sit in fridge overnight. Preheat oven to 350 degrees and bake, lightly covered with foil, for about 45 minutes. Cut into squares and serve with fruit (I like those big bowls of presliced fruit from Costco) and store-bought miniature cinnamon muffins. Low effort, big raves, trust me.

  Serves 8-10

  22

  I Dreamed A Dream That My Lashes Were Long

  I get a little cheesed every time I think about Susan Boyle, the Scottish singing sensation. I’m not mad at her, of course. What bugs me is how everybody was so surprised that a matronly chick in a dowdy lace dress could sing pretty.

  Not since Gomer Pyle’s singing genius was discovered while changing a tire in Mayberry have so many been so shocked that a homely person could make beautiful music.

  But, really, why?

  Why were so many people so surprised that a plump middle-aged woman of daff
y disposition could have real talent? Beauty and talent don’t always, or even often, go together. (See Simpson, comma, Jessica; bless her heart.)

  With her bushy brows arching toward heaven, Susan Boyle sang her lumpy ass off and a British talent-show judge proclaimed that it was the surprise of his life.

  Why is that?

  Say what you will about Mick Jagger, whom I adore, but he ain’t purty. He’s a wormy looking little fella with tragic features but, sha-zam, is he talented! And, to most, a sexy senior. Cause he’s a boy.

  The way the Brits carried on so about Susan Boyle’s bold decision to commit the offense of SWU (Singing While Unattractive) was tiresome, but it would’ve been even worse if she’d made her debut on American Idol, I suppose.

  Randy: “Dang, that was good! Holler at cha! Little pitchy and you’re no looker and it was the wrong song choice, but it was good! Dawg.”

  Paula: “Oh my goodness, you just came out there and really, well, the angels and the ozone and everything just really brought together a thing that is, well, just such a thing that is just so beautiful in a sort of symbiotic eternity. And you can’t help how you look.”

  Kara: “Can anybody please just pronounce my name right? Please? My name? Anybody? Oh, and you on stage? Yeah, I really think that you should know that I prefer my contestants to be hot eighteen-year-old guys so, uh, yeah, well, this was kind of a time-waster for me.”

  Simon: “Look, the elephant in the room is, well, it’s bloody her. The bottom line is this woman is painfully, undeniably, and unalterably unattractive, and we live in a shallow culture that simply can’t support a woman who chooses to wear such a ghastly Kmart frock to perform in a nationally televised performance where I’m forced to look at her.”

  It’s regrettable that women have to worry so much about appearance. Even Ellen DeGeneres, who replaced poor Paula, freeing her to pursue other projects, is obsessed with her looks, otherwise why would she agree to be the newest spokesmodel for CoverGirl cosmetics? (BTW, “pursuing other projects” is Hollywood-speak for rehab followed by another painful reality show.)

  It’s a little curious. Ellen never seemed to care about conventional stuff like foundation and powder. She was the comedic version of Susan Boyle, talented without fretting about the whole looks thing.

  But turns out she was a little worried about it and now, suddenly, she’s everywhere, on magazines, the sides of buses, on TV, yakking about CoverGirl’s new Simply Ageless Foundation.

  I usually pay big bucks for department store foundation so this was pretty tempting, the notion that I could use something to give me a flawless face that was available at CVS and cost less than a medium pizza. Ellen told me it was so, and she wouldn’t lie, would she? Besides, who among us doesn’t want to look like a fifty-year-old lesbian?

  If this cheap drugstore foundation was responsible for Ellen’s glowing skin, then that was good enough for me. Not to mention Susan Boyle, but only if she wants to gussy up a bit. She could still sing the paint off the walls.

  I don’t have a great set of pipes going for me so I cling to the little things. Which is why I couldn’t wait to get Simply Ageless home. It was so cute in its little purple compact with a swirl of white antiaging goo mixed right in.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the damn thing open. After about fifteen minutes, I finally pried the bottom section open and a cute little white applicator sponge rolled out. OK … but how to get the foundation part open?

  The CoverGirl Web site was there to help. At first, I felt pretty stupid being unable to open a simple compact but then I saw “How to Open Simply Ageless” as a clickable link at the Web site so I figured there were hundreds, if not thousands, of middle-aged women out there frustrated as hell in their pursuit to look like Ellen DeGeneres.

  There were three steps, mostly involving twisting counter-clockwise, clockwise, rotating bottoms and tops, and quoting Chaucer while balancing plates on a stick and scratching your ass.

  I was kidding about the Chaucer part. ’Nother words: I just couldn’t get the damn thing open. I imagine Susan Boyle would’ve given the whole project about six seconds before hollering “Bollocks!” and gone out to shear the sheep or rethatch the roof or whatever people do in Scotland when they’re not singing on the telly or carping about the weather.

  After a few more minutes of wrestling with the compact, I broke down and called the toll-free CoverGirl help line, where a perky sounding beauty consultant said she’d be happy to help once I described my dilemma.

  “You have to turn it counter-clockwise on the clear part while grasping the bottom purple part.”

  “Do I have to do the Chaucer part now?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Kidding. Please continue. I tried all that stuff and nothing happened.”

  There was a brief pause and the phone had that dead-air sound that made me think she’d put me on hold so she could laugh out loud at the hick in North Carolina who couldn’t open the stupid compact.

  Finally, she came back on the line, perky as ever.

  “Ma’am, maybe you could ask someone who is stronger than you in the household to open it for you?”

  WTF?????

  “I’m not some weakling,” I sputtered. “Just because I don’t have Ellen’s guns and I really need that Olay regenerative serum doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Of course you’re not weak,” the consultant said, clearly thinking that I was, too.

  “Take it back.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look, I really want to use this product today. I’ve got a meeting and I need to look sixteen years younger by two o’clock.”

  “OK,” she said, brightly. I could just picture her making big circles in the air beside her temple while she talked to me. “Perhaps you could gently rap the compact on a countertop. Some people find that helpful.”

  “What if I just take a freakin’ hammer to it?”

  Suddenly, she sounded serious, not at all perky and more than a little frightened.

  “Ma’am, we at CoverGirl most certainly do not advise that you do that.”

  Empowered, I decided to be an even bigger bitch.

  “What if I put it in the driveway and roll over it repeatedly with my car?”

  Silence.

  “Fire all of my guns at once and explode into space?”

  “Ma’am, that’s from Born to Be Wild.”

  I had underestimated my foe. She clearly had a grip on late ’60s Steppenwolf, so how bad could she be? Maybe I did need a stronger member of the household to help me.

  Just as quickly, she told me that she’d mail me a coupon for a new compact or the CoverGirl product of my choice (their waterproof mascara is the best ever). But now, she needed to go. I’m guessing there was a large-pore emergency brewing on the West Coast.

  I think Susan Boyle had it right all along. I’m sick of trying to shave the years off with all these little pots of goo that clutter my vanity. Think of the very name of that piece of furniture: vanity. Why shouldn’t it be something more evolved? Like my self-assured or my self-esteem? While Susan has gotten a tiny makeover, she’s still her haggis-enjoying self and I could learn a lot from that.

  It’s doubtful Susan Boyle has even thought about her eyelash sitchy-ation. Long lashes are a big deal these days, at least to Latisse spokesmodel Brooke Shields.

  I probably won’t buy Latisse because it’s prescription only and that just seems like a lot of trouble. Besides, the endless warnings of possible side effects that should include unrelenting hotness and maybe X-ray vision but really include discolored eyelids and itchiness make it less tempting.

  Latisse, a pretty name that’ll probably show up in kindergartens across this great land in about five years, is manufactured by the same company that gave us Botox. (Another product which Authentic Woman Susan Boyle knows nothing about.)

  Latisse started out as a glaucoma remedy but got renamed and repackaged ($120 for a month’s worth) after its magical la
sh-lengthening properties were discovered by accident.

  I repeat: When did we become so obsessed with our eyelashes? Maybelline has a new vibrating mascara. Is it a sex toy or a lash lengthener? You be the judge.

  Pulse Perfection mascara looks cool, but I’m plenty apprehensive about sticking a rod that vibrates at “7,000 times per stroke” that close to my eyeball. What if my hand slips during the application? Would it jackhammer my brain? I’d hate to lobotomize myself in the lame, insane pursuit of beauty. What would I do? Just sit at my self-esteem every day staring vacantly at the mirror and wondering why I sat there in the first place.

  Let’s stop the madness! Eyelashes are designed to keep crud out of your eyes (medical definition), or to be batted seductively at the object of one’s affections (my definition), or to be pulled out one by one in an obsessive-compulsive manner (Sylvia Plath’s definition).

  I believe that clears everything up. Dawgs.

  23

  Marriage in Three Acts

  Act I

  The front desk clerk warned us about the minibar in our room as soon as we checked into our Vegas hotel for the week.

  “I have to tell you something,” he said in a tone as serious as if Wayne Newton had just up and died in the Dale Chihuly-glass-flowered lobby of the Bellagio. “The minibar is hypersensitive and it will charge you sometimes if it detects even the slightest motion when you approach it.”

  Because duh-hubby and I share an irrational disdain for overpriced snack foods, we gave the desktop minibar a wide berth once we got in our gorgeous lake-view room. Yeah, we paid the extry $30 for the view because it was our twentieth anniversary, and we read in the hotel brochure that if you have a lake-view room, you can see the water fountains shoot up in time to music on your TV every twenty minutes. It is sooooo worth it.

  Brushing by the minibar to play with the electronically controlled drapes because I am, at heart, a Clampett, Duh fairly screamed at me.