At ten-thirty I’m exhausted and thinking about taking off. Take your girlfriend to work day is about over.
By ten-forty the place is packed, the “Central Perk” of the twenty-something religious scene. These must be the so-called kids Mrs. Weinberg was referring to. Steve pats them on the back when they pass him. Except some of the women, who apparently aren’t allowed to be touched by men other than their husbands. Not that all of them are that religious. One particular curly brunette (every woman in here is a curly brunette) seems happy to run her palm up and down Steve’s arm.
I decide to find Steve to say goodbye. He’s in the kitchen, pulling bags of noodles out of a cupboard. “Who’s the girl who keeps touching you?” I ask him. In a boxing match, jealousy would beat the crap out of exhaustion.
“Keeps touching me?” he repeats, blushing.
“The brunette. In the skirt.”
“Oh, in the skirt,” he says. All the girls are wearing skirts.
“The one whose skirt has a slit halfway up her thigh? Don’t they wear skirts to be modest?”
“Ruthie?” he says.
“That’s Ruthie?” I say, surprised. “Ruthie Ruthie? Your ex-girlfriend Ruthie?”
He shrugs. “That’s her.”
Steve pointed out Ruthie in his Carmel High School year-book. I asked to see it, wanting to patch together the seasons before me in his life. If only you could rent the earlier episodes from Blockbuster. Season One: childhood. Season Two: Carmel High School. Season Three: NYU. Season Four: working for Dad. Season Five: taking over for Dad and meeting me. Season Six:…tbd.
His year-book picture looked like a caricature of today’s Steve. His nose and chin were exaggerated, too large for his skinnier face. The caption had included all the regular cheesiness (“What a long strange trip it’s been” and the note to the person he then believed was the love of his life: “Ruthie, 1 day we’l gt marEd, IluvU.”)
I thought it was cuter when she was an old profile photo with too-thick eyebrows. Now she had exploded into an ex-girlfriend Andie MacDowell look-alike who had attacked my Stevie in plain sight.
“Relax, her boyfriend’s here, too,” he says.
The boyfriend doesn’t mind her mauling my boyfriend? Maybe I’ll stay a bit longer.
I anchor myself at a small table in the corner of the restaurant and pull out the Newsweek magazine I purchased on my way home from the audition and planned on reading in bed. Ruthie and company are sitting at the table next to mine, close enough for me to secretly study her from above the magazine. I feel like Cybil Shepherd in Moonlighting.
She’s eating pizza. Cutting square pieces with a fork and knife and then carefully depositing them into her mouth. Her mouth that kissed my Stevie. Didn’t sleep with my Stevie, though. Steve’s first lover was another freshman in college. Until he went to NYU, he had followed his parents’ wishes and been somewhat religious. Only after moving into a dorm and meeting new people did he decide that for the moment, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to follow all the Jewish laws.
Ruthie is tall, has wide eyes, a thin nose, and wears her curly hair half up. Her dinner group consists of two other couples and the man I assume is her boyfriend (he’s short and dark-haired. Steve is a million times better looking—no wonder she’s still touching his arm). Everyone but the two of them are wearing wedding rings.
Ruthie leans toward one of the women. “I can’t believe you’re already on your third. Maybe a boy this time?”
Third? How old is she? Twenty-four? I wish Millie or Dana were here so we could all roll our eyes.
One of the husbands looks up at me and waves.
He caught me staring.
“Sunny?” he says. “How are you?”
Suddenly he looks familiar. A friend of Steve’s? I met him once, bumped into him on Broadway and Houston. Jake? Jon? Jason. Yes, Jason. A high school buddy.
“Jason, hey,” I say. Damn. I was enjoying my anonymity. I see the girls whispering to one another. I put down the magazine and walk over to their table, and stand across from Ruthie, who looks me over. I’m sure there are grass stains all over my clothes from playing in the park. Lovely. Thanks, Steve, for letting me know what a scene this was. I’m wearing jeans, a zip-up orange sweatshirt and sneakers. I wish I still had on Carrie’s boots.
Steve is watching me through the window to the kitchen and I wave him over. He joins us and ruffles Jason’s hair. “Hey, man, how’s the food?”
Jason punches him in the arm. “What’s going on?”
“The usual,” Steve answers and takes my hand. “Do you guys know Sunny?”
“No,” everyone but Jason says. Steve introduces me around and I try very hard not to look at Ruthie.
Steve returns to the kitchen and I’m forced to sit with these people. And chat. How can I be impressive when I’m practically falling asleep? My eyes keep drooping. I definitely have a disease. And I’m making it worse by staying up so late. Is Steve going to be embarrassed of me? I must look smashed. They’re going to think I’m a lush. The word around Jewish New York will be that Steve’s new girlfriend is a drunk.
At one in the morning, the friends take off. Now it’s just Steve, me and the staff.
“Do you mind waiting another twenty minutes?” he asks and kisses my forehead. “We’re almost done.”
“No problem,” I say, and try to appear awake. As soon as he walks away, I put my head down on the table. Rest my eyes for a sec.
I wake up to Steve playing with my hair. “Honey, wake up. I’m done.” The restaurant is dark and we’re the only ones left. The photographs glow, dreamlike.
“I’m not asleep,” I say. I hope I wasn’t snoring.
He takes my hand again as we walk toward the street. “Guess who gets to sleep in tomorrow…”
“Us? Promise?”
“Promise.” He raises his arm to hail a cab. “We’ll sleep till our stomachs wake us.”
I climb into the taxi next to him and rest my head against his shoulder.
“Wake up,” he says when we’re in front of our apartment.
“Wasn’t sleeping,” I murmur.
While Steve checks the messages, I quickly make the bed. I’ve never been a terribly anal bed-maker (when I had time in the morning, great, if I was running late who cared?) but I feel that it’s somehow part of my duty. Not that Steve expects me to make it. Or maybe he does. No, he doesn’t. But won’t he grow to love having a made bed with crisp cool sheets to sleep on at the end of the day? It’ll be one of the little things he’ll start to depend on, to need, to love. To not be able to live without. A made bed. Me.
As soon as the sheets are tucked in, I climb into them and close my eyes.
“Six new messages,” Steve says from the other room. His voice is starting to sound hazy, far away. “Wow. This phone is much more popular since you’ve moved in. It’s Carrie. Do you want to hear?”
I shake my head no, even though I know he’s in the other room.
“She says call her back right away…. It’s Carrie again. She says she has news…. It’s Carrie again. She says why haven’t you called her back…. It’s Carrie again. She says you got the job. You got it!”
I’m going to be on a reality TV show. Am I ruining my life? His religious friends will think I’m a slut. I’m too tired to worry about the ramifications. Tomorrow.
I smile. They picked me. I’m going to be on TV. I turn on my back and laugh.
Religious people don’t watch slutty shows, do they?
“She says to call her back immediately…. It’s her again. She says she’s going to sleep, she can’t wait up any longer but you have an emergency spa appointment.”
Sounds fine. Sounds fun. That rhymes. Does it? Did I say that out loud? Am I asleep?
“And she’s picking you up tomorrow morning at eight-thirty.”
But he promised.
8
Transformers
I love Star Wars. Growing up, I collected the action figures i
n my Darth Vader carrying kit: Princess Leia, Han Solo, Darth Vader, C-3P0, R2-D2, Boba Fett, Yoda and two Luke Skywalkers. One was Luke Skywalker the X-Wing Pilot, the other Luke Skywalker the Jedi Knight. The ultimate movie makeover moment of all time is watching Luke, all serious and dressed in black, coolly stroll into Jabba the Hutt’s cave, kill everyone and save his friends. You barely remember the farm boy he was in Episode IV.
I’ve always wanted a makeover. True, I was hoping for one that would make me capable of mind manipulation and transcendental object-lifting. But I suppose a spa makeover will do.
I have been told I have a colorist appointment, a stylist appointment, a facial appointment, a body facial appointment (I’m not sure what a body facial is. Apparently it involves something called an alpha-beta peel and cleansing mint mud?), a manicure appointment, a pedicure appointment, an eyebrow-wax appointment and a bikini-wax appointment, all at Bella, a Soho spa, all compliments of Party Girls.
Not sure why a bikini wax is necessary. Do Manhattan bars have hot tubs?
My Jedi training begins in the skin room, on a foamy lawn chair covered in a white paper towel motif. The walls are mirrored and windowless. A magnifying glass the size of a satellite dish is suspended above me. The room smells like pineapple. Beside me, Carrie sits on a stool, reading Elle. She will be accompanying me through all levels of preparation. I think she’s concerned that if left alone, I might bolt.
Post-alpha-beta peel (I still don’t know what that is), a cold and heavy mud mask hardens my face and limbs. I’m annoyed that the rims of my cotton panties and bra are mud-stained. Washing bras is such a pain.
Carrie looks up from her magazine. “Have you ever been to Pompeii?”
“Is that another salon?”
“It’s the city in Italy where the volcano went off and covered the whole town in lava. Quite remarkable. I was there last summer.”
“No. Did you see dead people?”
“You don’t actually see the dead people. More like the papier-mâché moldings of dead people. It was cool.”
“Is there an article about Pompeii in Elle?”
“No.” She looks back at her magazine. “Something reminded me of it.”
“What?”
“You.”
Next, I’m transported to the eyebrow room, which is essentially another cushioned lawn chair, with mirrored walls and a massive magnifying glass. “All the rooms are exactly alike. Why can’t I stay put and have the estheticians come to me?”
Carrie sits down on her new chair, which looks exactly like her old chair, and opens her magazine. “Look who’s already a princess.”
A shorthaired Brazilian woman in a white smock opens the door to the room. “Hel-lo, hel-lo,” she says. Her voice has a Mr. Rogers singsong quality. “I’m Jazelle, are you ready?”
I don’t think so. I’ve never waxed anything before. I shave my legs and bikini line when necessary and occasionally pluck my brows. Why spend hundreds of dollars on hair removal when I can do it for free?
Dana makes a trip to the waxer once a month for full hair removal. She raves about it but can never wear shorts or a bathing suit for two weeks a month because the hair has to “grow out.” What’s the point of all that pain and money if you can only show it off for half the month?
Jazelle lowers her face until she is just an inch above mine. I wish I had a breath mint. “Eyebrows and lip?” she asks.
My lip?
“Um…only my eyebrows.”
She nods.
“What’s wrong with my lip?”
She runs her finger over my upper lip. “You have lots of dark hair. If I were you, I’d remove it.”
Lots of dark hair? I have a mustache? Why hasn’t anyone mentioned this? Isn’t that something that your best friends are supposed to tell you? “Okay. Take it off.” Do it! Do it!
She spreads the wax over my lip. That doesn’t feel too bad. Kind of nice, actually. Soothing, even. It’s—
“Fuck!” I scream as she rips the skin off my body. The sting slowly subsides.
“Lie back down, lie back down. I have to do the sides.”
After the sides, she moves on to my brows, which aren’t as excruciating.
When I’m escorted to the body-waxing station, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the seven thousand mirrors and am pleased to see my brows looking fantastic. My lip makes me look like I’m part of the Got Strawberry Milk? campaign, but Jazelle promised that the red marks would disappear in an hour.
A Korean woman is standing, arms crossed, beside her room’s lawn chair. “Take off your pants and panties,” she tells me.
Carrie freezes. “I think I’ll go get a coffee.”
“Don’t leave me,” I plead in Carrie’s direction, but faster than the Roadrunner, she’s outta there.
I enter the room. The esthetician slams the door behind me.
I take off my jeans, fold them and place them on what should be Carrie’s chair.
The woman sticks her finger at my crotch. “Panties off.”
Why do I have to take off my panties? Can’t she just move them to the side?
I place my mud-caked panties on top of my jeans and lie back on the paper-covered chair. This is ridiculous. A Kleenex box is on the counter, so I pull a tissue out and cover the area between my legs.
The woman smells like antiseptic. She dips a Popsicle stick in hot wax and then spreads it on my right lower leg. This won’t hurt this won’t hurt this won’t hurt this won’t hurt.
Ouch.
It’s not as bad as my upper lip. I can handle it. And again.
Ouch.
She climbs her way up my right leg. And then over to my left leg.
Thank God I don’t have a lot of hair on my upper legs. It hurts a bit, but I can handle it. I’m a waxing pro.
She picks the tissue off of my privates. “Spread your legs.”
What? Does she double as a gynecologist?
“You don’t trim?” she asks.
Is this a lecture? “Sometimes,” I answer.
“What shape you want?”
“What are my options? I’ve never done this before.” As if she hasn’t figured that out.
“Take it all off first time. It grow back thinner.”
All off, huh. Sexy. Steve’ll love it. I’ll be just like the girls on the porn channel he loves, Hot ’n Sexy. What a fantastic surprise. I won’t even tell him, I’ll just wear a skirt and tell him I’m going commando and then…it’ll be fantastic. I’m the best girlfriend ever.
She spreads the wax over the outer edge of the left side of my pubic region. That feels nice. Hot. Oooh. Is it gross to get aroused at a bikini wax? And then—
OH. MY. GOD. I’ve never known such pain.
She pushes my legs apart. “Keep them open!” she orders Gestapo-style.
This is worse than the gynecologist.
She spreads the wax over the right side of my pubic region and then—
OH. MY. GOD. This is the most horrific pain I have ever felt in my entire life. Worse than when I spilled hot water all over my hands. Worse than slamming the car door on my fingernail. Worse than a visit to the dentist.
I try to see what she’s doing, but I feel dizzy. She’s spreading the slimy material over the top inch of my pubic region. This is going to hurt. I know this is going to hurt. Here it comes. She’s going for it—
“Owwwwwwwwww!”
She looks up at me and shakes her head. “If you open your legs properly it won’t hurt so much.”
Why would it make a difference how wide my legs are? It would make no difference. Absolutely no difference. This woman is a psychotic sadist.
“How much longer is this going to take?”
“I’m doing the lips now, and then the anus. Ten minutes. Spread wider.”
Anus? She thinks she’s waxing my butt? Ten more minutes of this torture? I don’t think I can do it. My body wasn’t made for this type of pain. She coats the left vaginal lip in wax. I take a d
eep breath.
Here it comes. And there it…
…goes. I think I passed out. I open my eyes and push her hand away as she’s about to coat me in more torture. “No, I can’t take it.”
“I’m not stopping now. Only half of you is done. You look stupid.”
I close my legs and jump off the table. “I don’t care. No more. I’m done.”
The woman huffs and stands back from the table as I hastily step into my muddy underwear. “It would have been easier if you kept your legs open,” she snarls.
Now I know why Dana made me get both my ears pierced at the same time.
The colorist and stylist loom behind me, one on each shoulder, like the angel and devil who personify TV characters’ consciences. Carrie sits at the unused hair station next to me, to coordinate.
“So what are going to do? A trim? A few highlights?”
“I could,” says the colorist. She’s about sixty-five and looks like a grandmother. Her shoulder-length hair is layered, blow-dried and colored adult-lady blond. When I first saw her from the back and didn’t see the wrinkles around her eyes and lips, I thought she was in her forties.
“No,” Carrie says. She’s filing her nails. “Not enough. Think glamorous starlet at the Oscars, not girl next door.”
I see the bags under my eyes in the mirror. “So what do you want to do? I’m too tired to care.”
The colorist picks up a strand of hair from above my ear and carefully studies it. The bags are really awful. I need to buy some more of that concealer stuff. Where did I put the one I bought once? Do I get free makeup with this show? This whole day has been full of mirrors. Who wants to stare at herself for that long? Are you supposed to look into your own eyes? Are you supposed to pretend you don’t see yourself?
“Love it. Love it!” Carrie says.
Sorry, too busy staring at myself, can you repeat that? “Love what?”
The colorist picks up another strand, this one from the top of my head. “I said let’s do something really different. Let’s make you beautiful.”
As Seen on TV Page 11