I sat in bed with House of Mirth. Abyss hopped onto the bed, walked into my lap, and sniffed the junior pizza.
“Abyss, you don’t like Velveeta junior pizza,” I said.
Maybe not, but she seemed to go for the bread. She stuck her snout in the pizza and started to drag the entire thing off the bed, leaving a vertical trail of Velveeta grease three inches wide and three feet long down my ivory white comforter.
“All right, then, take it.”
I walked into the kitchen to make another Velveeta junior pizza. La Brea Bakery rosemary and olive bread, mayo, tomatoes, grated Velveeta…
Bam bam. Pounding on my front door. Bam bam bam bam.
“Open the door, Courtney.” A guy’s voice. Not one that I recognized.
Had I forgotten to pay my cable bill again?
Bam bam bam. Louder now.
“Open the door, bitch.”
If it was Time Warner cable I was definitely not going to contribute to their holiday toy campaign.
BAM BAM BAM.
“BITCH OPEN THE DOOR.”
Not likely. A great way to get beaten to a pulp. I never understood why people opened the door and let go of the only protection between them and a crazed animal.
“Whoever it is, stop pounding on my door or I’ll call the police.”
“You don’t know who it is?”
“Aaron?”
“Stupid bitch. Who’s Aaron?”
“Dr. Ted?”
“You can’t reject me. I do the rejecting.”
“Frank?”
“You don’t return my calls. Who do you think you are?”
“Genie?”
It occurred to me that I had a few too many possibilities in the angry guy category. Perhaps it was time to refine my list.
“Whore. You’ve got so many guys, don’t you?”
“Andre?”
“You think you’re better than me, but you’re not as good.”
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.”
“I’ll get to you first.”
Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. It sounded like he was hitting my door with a hammer. I called 911.
“Are you in immediate danger?” said the 911 operator.
“The police won’t touch me, bitch.”
Whack whack whack whack whack.
“What are you, O.J. Simpson? Pipe down, will you. I’m trying to talk to the 911 operator.”
“Hello…” said the 911 operator.
“I don’t think he has a gun,” I said to the 911 operator, “but he’s banging on my door with something and screaming.”
“Don’t open the door,” said the 911 operator.
“Thanks for the advice,” I said.
“I’ll send someone around in a while to check up on you.”
Crash—the sound of glass breaking.
“You idiot,” I said. “Did you break my potted cactus?”
During my Southwest motif stage I had been gifted with a cactus in an Age-of-Aquarius turquoise blue pot. Through careful neglect, it grew about two feet. But Abyss spent endless hours using the cactus as a back scratcher, causing the cactus to be matted with her fur. I had put it out front at my door.
“If you knew anything, you’d know that Southwest is over.”
“Oh.” I knew who it was.
I thought about who lived close enough to get here quickly. I called Bettina.
“Can you come over, quickly, with Bean? Someone’s trying to break my door down.”
“We just sat down to dinner,” said Bettina. “Call me back in 45 minutes, OK? I want to know who it is.”
I called Marcie.
“Any possibility that you and Greg could pop over? Some guy’s trying to break my door down.”
Whack. Crash. The sound of the pot breaking into smaller pieces.
“I see that you’ve got yourself into another mess,” said Marcie. “Where do you find these guys?”
“At the Ivy & Elite,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that it’s Richard from the Ivy & Elite.”
“No way,” said Marcie, “those people have good breeding. Nobody from that group would want you enough to break your door down.”
“I’m guessing that you and Greg won’t come over,” I said. “I gotta go.”
“Oh, the drama, Blanche. How exciting. Someone wants you,” said Stefan. “Let him in. I’m sure you’d have fun.”
“I don’t think so, Stefan,” I said. “I’m scared.”
“Well, James and I are having drinks with friends.”
“Gotta go,” I said.
I didn’t want to do it. But I did.
“So there’s this guy hitting my door with a hammer,” I said. Crash crash crash whack.
“I’ll be right over,” said Josh.
“Richard,” I said, “it is you, isn’t it? What are you doing?”
“YOU DIDN’T RETURN MY CALLS,” said Richard
“It was you… You’re the Breather, right?” I said.
“You didn’t even go to an Ivy League School,” said Richard, “but I did.”
“So go find a little Ivy Eliter.”
Whack Whack.
“You don’t reject me. I reject you.”
“So reject me, and go away.”
BOOM. A thousand pieces hit the floor.
“Did you just throw my pot against the door?”
“I was going to show you how to be one of us.”
“You and everyone else out there.”
“Our children could have gone to the best schools and known the right people,” said Richard.
“Look, Richard, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. But you’d better go. I’ve called someone and they should be here soon.”
“OK,” said Richard. He sounded calm now. “I’m sorry about your pot. I’ll buy you a new one—but Southwest is just so…”
“I got it, Richard.”
“Call me if you think you might want to go out. You’ve got so much potential. I really think I could do something with you.”
It was suddenly quiet. I sat down on my gray futon, and greasy-Velveeta Abyss walked onto my lap, sat down and stuck her head into the crook of my elbow, something she had done every night since the day of her adoption. I knew that stroking her would feel like running your hands through a salad slathered in Ranch dressing. I did it anyway. She purred, and left an enormous grease spot on the inside left elbow of my favorite blue cashmere sweater, something no cleaner anywhere, not even the very exclusive Brown’s, would ever be able to get rid of.
A few minutes later, someone knocked on my door.
“Go away, Richard.”
“It’s me—Josh.”
I unlocked the door and opened it. There were turquoise-blue shards everywhere. My little two-foot cactus sat in the corner, leaning against the wall, de-potted, looking as if it were being punished for bad behavior.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Wow,” said Josh, “are you OK?”
“Yeah, but I better get my cactus. Do you know anything about potting cactus?”
“Not a thing,” said Josh.
“Hmm. I guess I’ll put it in with the Ficus overnight.” We walked into the apartment. Greasy-Velveeta-encrusted Abyss walked up to sniff Josh.
“What’s that?” said Josh.
“Ah, that’s my cat—Abyss. She took a liking to my sandwich. Normally, she resembles a fat Tabby.”
“Did the guy go away?” said Josh.
“I think so.”
“Want me to stick around for a while? To be sure? I’ll make tea, or something—and you can tell me what happened.”
Tea. I hate tea. Did I even have any?
“Sure. While I try to pot the cactus with the Ficus, you can make tea.”
“Where do you keep your tea?”
“If I even have any, it would be in the cabinet above the microwave in the kitchen.”
Josh walked into the kitchen and started scrounging through a cabinet. I dug a hole in th
e pot. Abyss trotted over, sniffed the cactus and started moving in.
“You listen here, young lady, you leave this cactus alone. OK, Abyss?”
“What’s this?” said Josh.
“Did you find some tea?”
“No. What’s on your sandwich—with the tomatoes and mayo?” said Josh.
Oh. I forgot to hide the Velveeta.
I took a deep breath.
“It’s Velveeta,” I said.
Josh didn’t say anything. He picked up the sandwich, put it in the microwave, and turned the microwave on.
“I love Velveeta,” he said.
17
What Are You Hiding?
“OK—so who was it?” said Marcie.
“First say hello, and then let me get a cup of coffee,” I said.
It was 6:30 a.m. on a 62-degree November morning. The sky was cornflower blue, not a cloud grazing past. The air was so clear that L.A. sparkled with sunlight, requiring me to wear my amber tinted, aviator sun glasses or risk a migraine from the bright sunlight.
From the Westside, you could see the snow caps on Mt. Baldy, 90 miles away. We had more days like this—sunny, clear, and smog-free, than the rest of the Los Angeles-hating US (especially our friends in “The City”) would like to admit. But this was cool for Los Angeles. In Massachusetts, Indiana, and Wyoming, 62 degrees in November would have been a heat wave.
We were at one of the profoundly unavoidable coffee franchises on San Vicente Boulevard in Brentwood. Today our training program was to attempt 10 miles after fortifying ourselves with coffee.
Unfortunately, I could see that Marcie had already proceeded into the carb-loading period of this morning’s agenda, two butter-drenched sticky buns and a hot chocolate Enormouso.
It appeared that our marathon training program was possibly having the opposite of the intended effect. I noticed that Marcie’s wardrobe, instead of switching from summer to fall, had gone from wearing fun show yourself things—tight, form fitting, brightly colored—to cover and hide yourself things—black, over-sized and baggy.
And yes, she was, as per her gain/lose cycle, growing her hair long and hiding.
Bettina stumbled in late. She was also a member of the opposite of the intended effect club. Her hair was long and her clothes were baggy.
Bettina headed straight to the butt-expanding counter. Her order: a glazed donut and a cinnamon twist with a vanilla latte Enormouso.
“Sorry, my nanny was late,” said Bettina.
“Nanny?” I said. “I thought you fired her. You mean your mother-in-law?”
Bettina had reluctantly fired Tom-Fricken-West’s nanny. It was one thing when her nanny had bought and then charged her for items which Bettina had neither asked for nor needed. Bettina had not been happy when she discovered that her nanny regularly talked on the phone, Bettina’s phone, for two hours per day and ignored the children, even when they were crying.
But when Bettina began noticing that her clothes were missing because her nanny was “borrowing” them, she gave up. She fired her, and somehow didn’t show up for our bi-weekly jogs for two weeks.
Bettina was pretty erratic with exercising, so it could have been a lot of things. When she finally showed again, I didn’t press the case.
“Nanny. Mother-in-law. What’s the difference?” said Bettina.
I looked at her.
“Well, to begin with, one is a member of your family… and I don’t mean the one you pay. You know, the one who gave birth to your husband?”
Bettina yawned. “Look who’s talking. How’s your door?”
I ignored her. “So, Miss Sticky Bun, what was your question?”
“Who was it?” yawned Marcie.
“Richard—the guy from the Ivy & Elite.”
“What did he want?”
“After breaking my cactus pot…”
“Thank God…”
I rolled my eyes.
“…and pounding on my door for 20 minutes. He was mad at me for not returning his calls.”
Marcie lurched forward at me. “You didn’t return his calls! What’s wrong with you?”
I looked at her.
“And he still wants to go out,” I said.
“Yeech. Why?”
“He thinks I have potential to break into the L.A. Civilian Royalty… with the right coaching.”
Marcie shook her head. “Give me his number. I’ll straighten him out on that.” She looked at me. “I think you should give him a second chance.”
“Are you nuts? I had to call 911.”
“Do you really think there are that many eligible guys in L.A.?” said Marcie.
Bettina looked up. “Did they come? The police?”
“Eventually. But first Josh came over.”
Marcie looked surprised. “Josh?”
Bettina looked alarmed. “Josh? You didn’t tell me that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“What did he want?” asked Marcie.
I looked at her.
“I don’t know… to play with Abyss? He came over to help me.”
“Why?” said Marcie
“Yeah, why?” said Bettina.
“I don’t know… he’s a nice guy.”
“Do you think he likes you?” asked Marcie.
“I don’t know.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Overnight.”
“Are you kidding?”
I was surprised by Bettina’s interest.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“And improve on your record?”
“What?” asked Marcie.
Bettina started blushing. “She’s kidding.”
I smiled at her.
“He spent the night on the couch.”
“Oh, he’s just being nice.”
“Maybe.”
“What else would it be? Isn’t he still dating that great girl… Carnie?” said Marcie.
“Cody. They broke up.”
Marcie nodded her head. “Hmm.”
“Why are you so interested?”
“He’s a great guy,” said Marcie, “but not right for you.”
“Why not?”
Marcie shook her head. “He’s just too classy and much higher than you on the Eco-Chain. He’s not your type.”
“Who is?”
Marcie raised her brows. “Hmmm, I need to think about that. But I know someone who might be a better match for him.”
“Who’s that?”
She smiled.
“You’re engaged. Aren’t you?”
I looked to Bettina, who turned her face away.
“Isn’t she?”
Marcie arched her back and yawned. “Well, Greg and I couldn’t agree on a budget for the wedding. My wedding should cost at least $250,000. He wants something different.”
“When did this happen?”
“Early October,” yawned Marcie. “I need more coffee.”
“So for four weeks you didn’t tell me that you broke up?”
“Not broke up. We’re not broken up. We’re just re-thinking things. Giving each other space.”
“Over the wedding budget?”
“It’s the most important day of my life and I deserve to have it the way I want it.”
“I guess my wedding dress is safe again.”
“It was always safe. But if I want it, I think you should let me have it. You know I should get what I want from my friends.”
“It’s a wedding, not a coronation.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Bettina.
“You might be right.”
Marcie smiled. “So Josh is available?”
I didn’t like where this was going. “I guess so.”
“What? Do you like him?” mumbled Marcie.
“Ye… ah.”
“He’s just not right for you. What does he think about all the makeup you wear?” sneered Marcie.
“He’s a guy. He doesn’t care.”
Bet
tina looked at me. “I think I know someone to set you up with. He’s more your style.”
“I know,” said Marcie. “Have you tried online dating?”
Bettina started laughing. “That’s a great idea! But I’m still going to give this guy a call to find out if he’s available.”
“Speaking of available, could you let Josh know that I am?” said Marcie. “Work on your thing for those online personals. I’d love to see it.”
“Hey, how about Richard? He’s available,” I suggested.
Marcie smiled contemptuously. “Nooo. He’s definitely not right for me. If he’s interested in you he wants a project not a princess.”
“Are either of you planning on running today?” I asked.
They looked at me.
“I didn’t think so.” I stood up and put on my glasses.
“You aren’t going to run in all that makeup?” Marcie said while rolling her eyes.
“Always have, always will. See ya.”
I walked out of the coffee joint and began my run alone.
I started up San Vicente at my pace, which I had determined to be about 11 minutes per mile. By the time I crossed 26th and tripped over the pot holes bordering the Brentwood Country Club, I thought about bagging it all to order a mocha Grande Enormouso at another location of the coffee chain which was less than two miles from the other location that I had just left. And I thought about what, if any, personal ad I would place.
I was surprised and bothered that Marcie hid her “not a breakup…” from me. But I was also bothered that she continued to bug me about my makeup. Because she knew.
Marcie knows that for the last 18 years I have worn makeup to cover my birthmark. She knows that my recent trip to the Demerol-addicted Laser God was not just for a little scar. It was to attempt another treatment for my birthmark. Which didn’t work. She knows that I’ve had many treatments that didn’t work. But she doesn’t know how many.
She doesn’t know that I’ve had three operations to remove skin, which didn’t work because it left scars. Five treatments with a laser which left a patch of my nose with the texture of cottage cheese, two operations to correct that, and two treatments with a new laser that doesn’t leave a cottage cheese texture. I’ve had ten procedures.
She knows that in grade school I always got to play the lead in Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer without resorting to makeup or props.
She knows that the day that I discovered makeup I went from “The Girl with the Birthmark,” “Oh my God, what happened to you?” and “Man, you’re so ugly,” to “Wow, who is that?” Like Julia, I’m not sure which one she is more comfortable with.
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