A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Dawn and my eyes follow her out. The chauffeur closes the door, and Dawn turns back to me. “Okay, so back to your problems with men.”

  “Do you know that I read that the same hormone that is secreted when a woman is breast-feeding her child is also secreted when she has an orgasm?” I say out of the blue.

  “That’s sick.”

  “It’s called oxytocin. The hormone is secreted during breast-feeding to help her bond with her baby, to make her biologically fall in love with her baby. Only it is also secreted during an orgasm, biologically forcing us to fall in love with the man who just gave us said orgasm.”

  Dawn looks like she’s genuinely worried about me. “Promise me the next time you wander into the self-help section, you’ll call me. I’ll come get you. No questions asked. No guilt trips. We’ll just be proud of you for getting out before it got ugly.”

  “Seriously, it’s why we wait by the phone, pining over a man, secretly convinced that he must be in love with us as much as we are with him, because how could we have shared such an intimacy if he didn’t give a shit!” I blurt out.

  I lower my voice. “It explains why I don’t know a single woman who hasn’t been shattered by dating. Men can actually go get laid, and make themselves feel better. If we do it, we feel worse. Bottom line.”

  “Very un–Gloria Steinem,” Dawn deadpans.

  “You know, she finally got married?”

  “No! What is she, like, a hundred?”

  I begin my tirade again: “Anyway, that’s why we get so attached. It’s the damned hormone. And I, for one, am going back to chocolate.”

  “Chocolate gives you orgasms?” Dawn asks, incredulous at my knowledge of biological trivia.

  “No. Chocolate has phenylethylamine—the chemical secreted when you’re in love.”

  It’s rare to see someone not have any facial expression whatsoever. Sadly, I did it to my friend. “You’re right. You’re going to need a lot of drinks tonight,” she says.

  Three

  If the hot spot you would like to frequent has a velvet rope—go somewhere else. You’re not paying $12 for a martini for the privilege of having a Gold’s Gym reject making minimum wage decide if you’re cool or not.

  This is actually one of the aspects of L.A. I like best. Other than movie premieres—which are all publicity stunts anyway—we don’t do velvet ropes here. There was never a Studio 54 in Los Angeles because if an Angeleno had to wait for more than ten minutes in line to get a drink, he would just go down the street to another club.

  Anyway, we arrive at a nightclub located in the penthouse of a skyscraper. It is one of L.A.’s current hot spots, complete with current sitcom stars buying drinks for current Sports Illustrated supermodels. Despite being a size 6, I am the fattest girl in the room.

  The theme to the bar is an underwater fantasy, so everything in the large room is blue and sparkly. A sparkly blue marble bar, sparkly blue cocktail tables, women behind glass windows dressed as mermaids. And the bar is known for its signature blue martinis, which were recently featured on Entertainment Tonight.

  Don’t eat blue food.

  Personally, I think it looks like people are drinking 2000 Flushes, but what do I know?

  Dawn and I do a trip around the bar to check out the hot guys. Maybe it’s the Veuve Clicquot Grand Dame talking, but I’m happy, and the guys here are so cute. Besides, I’m not going to sleep with any of them and secrete the dangerous hormone, so I can look all I want.

  Off to the side is a dead ringer for Ben Affleck. Upon closer inspection, it is Ben Affleck. Since he’s about three leagues out of my league, I move on.

  Dawn and I sit at a small, glittery turquoise table and order a bottle of Malbec. Actually, I order a Merlot, but Dawn corrects me by telling the waiter, “No, we’ll have a Malbec. Something in the fifty dollar range.”

  As the waiter leaves, I can’t help myself. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Merlot is over. Malbec is the next Merlot.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask a little too loudly.

  “Oh, please, can we keep that look on our face for the rest of the night, so that no one talks to us,” Dawn chastises me.

  “I like the old Merlot.”

  “Please. You’d still be wearing leggings if it weren’t for me. The nineties are over.”

  I pull a tampon out of my purse, and throw it at her. Clearly a woman this bitchy must be on the rag. Missing my insult entirely, Dawn slips it into her purse. (Okay, I guess she is on the rag.) Our waiter comes back with the bottle of Malbec, and two glasses interlocked in his fingers. “Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” he informs us.

  I would sarcastically say, “That narrows it down,” but you can’t miss the guy at the bar—a smoldering dark-haired god who smiles ever so seductively as he raises his Tidy Bowl martini to us. Must be for Dawn.

  Dawn smiles and waves to him as the waiter pours for us. “Who’s that?” I ask, fake-smiling at the man like a Pan Am stewardess.

  “Sean Brown. Writes action movies,” Dawn says, smiling back and waving. “He wrote that one I was in, Last Patriot.”

  As Sean begins to walk over to us, I see that another good-looking man is with him: blond hair, hazel eyes, not-gonna-kick-him-out-of-bed-for-eating-crackers body. Why is it good-looking men always travel in packs? “I didn’t know writers looked like that,” I say under my breath as I take my first sip of Malbec.

  “They don’t. He used to be an actor,” Dawn whispers, then gets up, and with great flourish, kisses him hello. “Sean, you gorgeous man, when did you get back in town?”

  “Just last week,” Sean says, then turns to the man with him. “This is my friend Tom Conroy. He’s also a writer.”

  “Dawn Fraiche,” Dawn says as she shakes Tom’s hand, “and this is my friend Charlie.”

  Tom stares at me and smiles. It’s a penetrating stare. One that can only make me think of, well, penetrating. Or at the very least, a probing tongue.

  “Hi,” he croons. I swear, he actually croons.

  I can’t help but smile. He is so cute. But I like Dave, I accidentally remind myself.

  But I’m not supposed to like Dave, so I can think this man’s cute.

  Man—why do I even need a man? I’m so busy mindfucking myself—who needs sex?

  “Marty Wolf is over there,” Sean tells Dawn as he points to a balding middle-aged guy with a ponytail. “He’s a brilliant new director. You guys are going to love each other. Do you mind if I steal her for a few minutes?” he asks me, already whisking my friend away.

  “No problem,” I say to the air—as they are already halfway across the room by then.

  Tom stands by my table awkwardly for a few seconds. “So, are you an actress, too?” he asks me.

  “Do I look like an actress?” I say, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “Wait, don’t answer that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you say yes it’ll sound like a line, and if you say no I’ll be offended.”

  He smiles, waves his hand toward my table, and asks, “May I?”

  I nod and smile.

  Tom sits next to me. “So, I guess you’ve heard a lot of lines in your time.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? I think, but I don’t want to come off angry. Instead, I say diplomatically, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. You were just saying that if I said you were an actress, it would sound like a line, so I figured you’ve heard a lot of them.” Tom takes a handful of mixed nuts from a glow-in-the-dark blue bowl on our table. I get the feeling he’s actually nervous.

  Which I guess is a good thing.

  “What’s the worst line you’ve ever heard?” he asks.

  “You wanna fool around at my place? It’s only a block from here,” I respond immediately.

  Mr. Conroy nearly chokes on his nuts. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s the worst line I’ve heard,” I say, sm
iling to myself for managing to trick him like that, and taking a sip of my drink. “Of course, it only works at fraternity parties.”

  Tom laughs. Okay, he gets me. I’m starting to like him. “What’s the worst line you’ve ever heard?” I ask him.

  “Are you an actress?” He smiles, and I notice how gorgeous his eyes are.

  “Touché.” I smile back. We clink our glasses together.

  “So what do you do?” Tom asks, eating a few more nuts.

  I hate that question. It’s like the grown-up version of “What’s your major?”

  “I’m an assistant,” I say, not bothering to give out any more information. The last thing I want to do is talk about Drew all night. Oh, who am I kidding, the last thing I want to do is talk about myself all night—but Drew comes in a really close second.

  “Interesting,” he says, although I notice he’s so interested, he asks me nothing more about it. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No,” I blurt out a little too quickly. “No,” I say again, reconsidering. Am I seeing Dave? I mean, he hasn’t called. But, then again, if a girl asked him that question tonight, I would hope he would say yes.

  “You don’t sound too sure of yourself,” Tom says.

  “Find me a woman in this bar who is sure of herself, and I’ll get the next round.”

  He points to Dawn, and I end up buying the next round.

  When it comes to finding a man in a bar, remember: the odds are good but the goods are odd.

  The evening had started out on such a promising note. But several hours, and I’ll admit a few bottles of Malbec, later—goddamn it! the guy got annoying.

  As I said, it started out well. He let me know he was thirty-two, had been engaged once, she broke it off. He was from Manhattan, lived in a two-bedroom condo in Brentwood, and wanted to settle down in the next few years. He liked romantic comedies (yeah, I know, they all say that) and loved anything Terry Gilliam had ever done.

  It had sounded so promising—until the red flags started.

  “So, what do you want to do besides be an assistant?” Tom asked, leaning in as though he was going to kiss me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked back. He hadn’t asked me about my job all night.

  He popped a peanut into his mouth. “Come on, this is L.A. No one is what they want to be unless they’re a famous director or something. Are you really a writer?”

  “I’m really an assistant,” I say. I’m not annoyed yet—but I do see the red flag warning me not to go anywhere near the water.

  “Good. Because, and I’ve had a lot to drink here, so I can be honest with you, I can’t be with a writer. I can’t take the competition.”

  Oh, one of those. “You must have gone to an all boys’ school,” I say dryly.

  He doesn’t get the insult. “You know what I hate is when a woman wins an Academy Award, and her husband lies to the press and says he’s proud of her. It’s such bullshit.”

  I choke on my drink. “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t get me wrong—I love women’s lib. I don’t want my wife to be a kept woman. But let’s face it, we men want to be the stars in the relationship. So when a woman wins an Academy Award, there is no man out there who can really feel anything but total jealousy. That’s just how we were biologically built. We need to be the one going out and killing the bull. Know what I mean?”

  I am about to really let him have it when I hear “Last call.” It is one-thirty—which is last call here in California. Saved by the bell. I decide to follow my dad’s advice, which I put in my book later:

  Never start a fight with a drunk. Verbal or otherwise.

  The waiter asks us if we would each like one more drink, and Tom responds with an enthusiastic “Yes,” before I can say “No.”

  I am soooo making sure he picks up the check. Asshole!

  “So, would you and Dawn like to go get some dinner?” Tom asks.

  “Um…you know, I have an early morning. See, my sister’s getting married in a few weeks and…”

  Before I can finish my excuse, Dawn and Sean walk up to us. “Limo’s here. We have to dash,” Dawn tells me.

  “We just ordered one more drink,” Tom says.

  The waiter arrives with two final glasses of wine, and the check. He places my drink in front of me, and the check and a drink in front of Tom. While Tom pulls out his Gold AmEx, Dawn picks up his drink.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” she says, and downs it in one gulp. Tom doesn’t even blink.

  After she finishes the wine, Dawn sways backward. “Oh my God,” she says. She nearly falls from exhaustion, but Sean steadies her. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Oh,” Dawn says, fluttering her eyes while she puts her hand on her forehead. “I’m feeling a little light-headed. I’m afraid I went for a ten-mile run today, and I haven’t had much to eat since then. I think maybe the wine just got to me,” she lies.

  Tallulah Bankhead would be jealous.

  “Would you like me to get you some dinner?” Sean asks, concerned.

  “Oh, you’re a love. Could I take a raincheck?” she says, then her knees give out and she stumbles into Sean’s arms. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

  “No, don’t worry about it. Would you like to do something tomorrow?” Sean asks.

  “I’d love to. Call me in the morning. For now, I think I better have Charlie get me home.”

  I get up and, with Dawn on my arm, make my way out.

  “How did you know I needed an out?” I ask.

  “I didn’t. I just didn’t want to go home with Sean tonight, and you shouldn’t be going home with some guy just because you’re upset about Dave.” I am still propping her up as we get into the elevator. “Besides, always leave them wanting more.”

  We get into the elevator, and the moment the door closes, Dawn stands up straight, back to her usual, glorious self.

  As we walk out the door, and toward the limo, a good-looking guy says hi to me, and I turn around to talk to him.

  “Honey, we are not doing the sidewalk sale,” Dawn says as she pulls me by the arm away from my new crush and over to the car. She pulls out my phone.

  “You’ve missed six calls,” Dawn tells me, looking at my phone.

  “Good,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad you took the phone away. A mother would have cramped my style this evening.”

  “They’re all from the 323 area code,” Dawn says, reading my list of incoming phone calls.

  “Gimme that!” I grab my phone and check the list. All six from Dave. I quickly dial *99, to retrieve my messages. He left three.

  “Hi, it’s Dave. Look, I know this is really short notice, but I’ve been invited to this party tonight by the guy who just produced Mel Gibson’s latest movie. It’s a little businessy, but it should be fun. Call me if you want to go. I’m on my cell. 323-555-6742. Beep.”

  The mechanized voice enlightens me: 8:02 P.M.

  Damn it!

  Message 2: “Okay, I’m pathetic,” a slightly drunken Dave confesses. “I’m here at the party, and all I can think about is you, and what an idiot I am that I didn’t call you sooner. If I had, you’d be sharing an exquisite Merlot with me…. I saw this thing at Costco for forty-eight bucks. Wait, was that crass that I said that? Anyway, maybe you’d be wearing that little black dress I loved so much, and we’d be talking about Billy Wilder movies, and instead you’re probably out with some fabulous guy who knows to call more than an hour before a party. And you probably never want to talk to me again….” Is he flirting? Was that flirting? “Call me at 323…” Beep.

  “11:02 P.M.,” the mechanized voice informs me. “Third new message.”

  “Hi. Me again. The machine cut me off, which I probably deserved. Anyway, my number’s 323-555-6742. Call me.”

  As we walk up to the limo, Dawn gives me the evil eye. “Don’t.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking about it,” I assure her.

  “Yes, you were. But don’t. It’s a booty call.”
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  “It’s not a booty call if he started calling me at eight o’clock.”

  As the limo driver opens the door for us, Dawn begins her lecture. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. He called to ask you out, then when you didn’t call him back, he called again to apologize for not calling you sooner.”

  “Yes,” I say as we settle into the car. “And tomorrow I’ll call him back.”

  “Sure you will,” my best friend retorts.

  And she’s right. I’m not home two minutes before I madly dial his cell phone. It only rings once.

  “Hello?” Dave slurs into the phone.

  For a moment, I am silent. What am I doing, calling a guy I barely know at two-thirty in the morning?

  “Charlie? Please tell me it’s Charlie,” Dave says excitedly.

  “Hi,” I stammer. “Where are you?”

  “Canter’s Deli. I’m with a couple of buddies. Come meet us.”

  “Are you already eating?” I ask, a touch of irritation creeping into my voice.

  “Yeah, but that’s okay. Come meet us.” Man, is his voice sexy. Well, I suppose I could just drive over for a minute….

  “No. I better not drive. I’ve been drinking,” I say stoically.

  “Me too!” he says, like that’s a total coincidence. “Look, gimme your address again.”

  “I don’t think you should be driving, either.”

  “She’s in Silverlake,” I hear him tell a friend at the table. “Yes, you are driving me…,” he yells to his friend. “Because she’s the most luminous woman I’ve ever seen, and it took me six hours to finally get her on the phone, and I’m not getting off the phone until I see her.” Dave then gets back to me. “You will stay on the phone with me until my friend drives me over there, right?”

  Damn! Did I mention he looks like Tom Cruise? Shit! Shit! What to say? I wish Jamie was here to advise….

  “Wait! I’ve got it on my palm pilot. Here it is! 1912 Silverwood. Okay—I’ll see you in twenty minutes!” And he hangs up.