A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Dad points to Table 1, in the center of the room. “You are here,” he says to Andy and Hunter. “Now, there are ten people per table, so which eight people do you want joining you?”

  Andy and Hunter start debating which eight people they can both stand to be with all night, and we are off!

  It only took four more hours, two more crying fits, three pints of Häagen-Dazs, one cancelled engagement, one “Fuck this—we’re just going to Vegas!”, seventeen “No, they hate each other—you can’t put them at the same table’s, twenty-three “She’s crazy (he’s crazy), we can’t have Hunter’s family find out how nuts our family is,” and seventy-two “Okay, fine’s in a variety of tones, before everything was sorted out and they let me go home.

  Oh yeah, and one “I love you. I would not have gotten through this tonight without you.”

  Andy probably said one of those to Hunter later on, but the one she said to me made the whole night worth it.

  Eleven

  Never judge people by who they date—your own sex life is confusing enough without trying to figure out everyone else’s.

  I say that because right now I’m a little confused about my sex life. Or lack thereof.

  I mean, I have a date tomorrow with Doug, who’s a really good-looking guy, and also a good kisser, and who seems nice, available, and interested.

  But I miss Jordan.

  Isn’t that stupid? I’ve barely talked to him for four months on the set, and after one night seated next to him at a party, I miss him.

  And, despite having not slept much last night, I can’t sleep.

  I open a bottle of Blackstone Merlot, and pour myself a glass as I look at the call sheet, which is the list of everyone on the crew, their jobs, phone numbers, cell phone numbers, and sometimes their e-mail addresses.

  There it is: Jordan1313. Hmm. Maybe I’ll write him a quick thank-you e-mail for coming to my birthday party. Just to say hi.

  Be yourself. Don’t try to impress anyone. You’re enough on your own.

  I spend the next forty-five minutes and two glasses of wine composing my quick “thank-you” e-mail. I type, I erase. Type, erase. Finally, I just get online and send what I have.

  My computer tells me “You have mail.” Yay! I love that sentence! I cheerfully look at my mail list. Mom: no, Dad: no, advertisement for porno, printable coupons for diapers(!). Oh, here’s one from Kate. Time-stamped less than fifteen minutes ago.

  To: AngelCharlie

  From: KissMeKate

  Sorry I didn’t call you back. Jack’s been calling all day, and I guess this breakup might take a while. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow night. First drink’s on me.

  BTW, do you happen to know the Minority Whip’s name in the Senate? I’m spacing.

  Sometimes I think she writes stuff like that just to make me feel stupid, and look it up.

  I start to write, Do you happen to know the only person not to get fired from WJM on the last episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show? as my response, just as I receive an IM (instant message) from Jordan1313.

  Jordan1313: Are you online?

  I stare at the message. No one ever instant-messages me. It’s one of those things that they always advertise on the commercials, that you can instant-message and talk to each other online, but I never actually do it. I just pick up the phone and call people.

  Besides, Jordan can’t be home on a Friday night.

  AngelCharlie: Jordan?

  Jordan1313: In the flesh. What are you doing home on a Friday night?

  Well, that’s a good question. How do I respond?

  AngelCharlie: Just recovering from the week. You?

  Jordan1313: Celebrating! I didn’t have to work today, so I took the whole day off. I went to the museum, then the beach. Kicked back some beers with my boys at Gladstone’s, then headed to St. Nick’s. It was great! I’m wasted!

  Museum? A guy who goes to the museum on his own? Without being dragged? And he’s drunk? Is God just messing with me right now? Gorgeous, cultured, drunk, and alone? I’m practically licking my lips.

  AngelCharlie: What are you wearing?

  I type, only half jokingly, then hit SEND.

  God—did I just write that? I would never say something like that in person. But somehow, in the anonymity of the Internet, it doesn’t seem like I’m really talking to him.

  Jordan1313: Swim fins, a tutu, and a ten-gallon hat. You?

  So much for Internet flirting being easier than real flirting. Apparently, I’m just as lame at it.

  AngelCharlie: A tub of jello and a smile on my face. Hold on while I get another glass of wine.

  Jordan1313: Excellent. I’ll go get a beer.

  I run into the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. Decide to grab the rest of the bottle and bring it with me.

  This is good—I have just set up that I, too, am drunk, which is sort of like the lame girl’s mating call. I can now say whatever I want, and if I’m embarrassed in the morning, I blame it on the booze.

  Although I adhere to an important rule:

  Always take responsibility for your actions.

  I mean, I just can’t stand people who get wildly drunk, do and say stupid things, then claim they can’t remember anything in the morning so they don’t have to deal with whatever fallout has occurred. I can’t even tell you the number of asshole men who have—

  Jordan1313: I’m back. Did you miss me?

  AngleCharlie: With every fiber of my being. I don’t know how I got through it.

  This is so cool! I can totally be myself around him. If I can’t see him, I can’t walk into walls, or stare at the ground, or chew on my cuticles while my eyes dart nervously around the room to focus on anything but him and his amazingly blue eyes.

  Jordan1313: Can I ask you a confidential question? Drew’s not gay, is he?

  Or I could just make a fool of myself in front of a gay man. God, please don’t let him be gay.

  AngelCharlie: No. Why?

  I type, bracing myself for the answer.

  Jordan1313: Well, I got this kind of weird vibe from him at the end of the night. He was very insistent that I join him after the party for a drink.

  AngelCharlie: LOL! No, that was for me. Drew was trying to play matchmaker.

  That was written in a jokey way, right? Like, “Oh, that airhead Drew—trying to set people up who would never have any interest in each other.”

  Jordan1313: You’re kidding! I didn’t even know you were available. Wait a minute—how can you be available?

  AngelCharlie: Yeah. That’s one of those questions a girl loves to answer—what the hell’s wrong with you that you’re still single?

  Jordan1313: I didn’t mean it that way. I’m single.

  AngelCharlie: That’s different. When a guy is single, he’s “available.” Or if he’s over thirty, he’s “a catch.” When a woman’s single, she’s “looking.” And if she’s over thirty, she “has baggage.”

  Jordan1313: Just so long as you’re not bitter.;)

  AngelCharlie: I may be having some issues about turning thirty.

  I light up a cigarette. I’m not sure why I wrote that. It just felt right.

  Jordan1313: Yeah. Like what?

  AngelCharlie: Like my younger sister’s getting married in two weeks, and I’m not, and what the hell’s wrong with me, and why don’t I have someone, and where are my 2.3 kids and a dog?

  Jordan1313: Thank God you said dog. If you had said cat, I’d have to break it off with you immediately.

  AngelCharlie: If I had said cat, I would have destined myself to stay single. If I had said cats, plural, I would have destined myself to being the crazy cat woman every kid in the neighborhood is afraid of. Have you turned thirty yet?

  Jordan1313: Yeah. A few months ago. I had my own crisis. I broke up with my fiancée.

  AngelCharlie: Yikes! I have no response to that.

  Jordan1313: Unfortunately, neither did she. Well, other than screaming and crying and throwin
g things.

  AngelCharlie: What made you decide to break it off?

  He doesn’t type back an answer. For a while. And I try to figure out how to take back the question. Damn, things were going so well. Why did I open my mouth?

  Jordan1313: Incompatibility.

  He finally writes back.

  AngelCharlie: I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. We can talk about something else.

  Jordan1313: No. I’m glad that you asked. Truth be told, none of my friends have asked much. Guys sort of don’t talk about these things. And now I don’t have a girl to talk to about it, as my old best friend, her name was Janet, is now my sworn enemy.

  AngelCharlie: You can talk to me about it.

  Yeah, I know the rule:

  Never ask a guy about his old girlfriends.

  But it seems to me that maybe he needs a friend right now more than a love interest. And, it’s strange, but right now, I want to know everything about him. And ex-fiancées are a part of that.

  Jordan1313: That’s really sweet. Really. But I don’t feel like talking about it right now. I’m drunk, I’m happy, and I’m talking to a cute girl. Why would I want to bring myself down?

  He called me cute! I did not imagine it. I have it in writing. Cute.

  Is there any way to save these conversations for posterity? Nooo, that would be creepy.

  AngelCharlie: Okay.

  Jordan1313: But I really appreciate it. You’re the only person except my mother and my sister who’s asked for any details.

  He gets along with his mother and his sister? Why is it men always get along with their mothers, but women don’t? Universal mystery.

  AngelCharlie: No problem. If you ever do want to talk, my number’s on the call sheet.

  It’s a subtle way to drop the hint. I’m careful so as not to be so desperate that I say, “And my cell phone number, and my address…”

  Jordan1313: Thanks, I might. But let’s change the subject. What wild thing are you doing on your birthday?

  AngelCharlie: I’m almost too embarrassed to say. Dinner with my family. Fortunately, afterwards my friends are taking me out for a late night “I can’t possibly be related to these people” drink.

  Jordan1313: That sounds like fun.

  I type “Maybe you could join us,” and then hit SEND. But nothing happens.

  I madly press the SEND button over and over again. Nothing.

  Suddenly, I hear a robotic voice tell me, “Your session has ended. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  My home phone rings. Okay, stay calm. Maybe it’s Jordan calling me. After all, I did just say my number was on the call sheet. Maybe he doesn’t know I only have one phone line, and that my Internet access is connected to it.

  I read the caller ID: Private caller. I pick up, and answer flirtatiously, “Hello?”

  “Is there any way I can give money to the Brentwood Police Department without it looking like a bribe?” Drew asks.

  I don’t like the sound of that. “Drew, why didn’t you call me on my cell?”

  “I tried. But your phone went straight to voice mail. So, do they have, like, a policeman’s ball or something?”

  “What did you do?” I ask accusingly.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Drew says defensively. “But Cindy might be having some issues with her new home.”

  I’m just going assume Cindy is the new elephant. “What happened?”

  “Well…first of all, did you know that female elephants can roar? Actually, it’s kind of a combination of a roar and a cry. Kind of like how a puppy cries the first night you bring her home, and she realizes she can’t sleep with you…mixed with a jackhammer.”

  I am speechless. Utterly speechless. But I have to say something. “I thought we agreed that Cindy…is that her name?”

  “Yeah. It’s short for Cinderellaphant.”

  “Very witty. I thought we agreed that Cindy was going to stay with her trainer until we got all those pesky little things like zoning laws worked out.”

  “Yeah, but then I started thinking about how nice it would be to come home to the pitter-patter of big feet, and, I don’t know, I just had to take her home.”

  I hear a deafening roar on the other end of the phone. Then I hear Drew yell, “Daddy will be right out, sweetie!” He returns to his normal voice. “Anyway, Cindy’s very upset, and I tried to let her into the house, so she’d calm down, but she didn’t fit. Then the neighbors called the cops, and they were so nice about the whole thing, but they did tell me that it would be in my best interest to find Cindy a new home. Now. So, long story short…”

  Too late.

  “…I need you to come over and call whoever it is that takes refugee elephants and tell them to come get Cindy.”

  Goddamn it! I have got to look for a new line of work. I mean, doctors should be on call. I understand that, they save lives. But no one should be called in the middle of the night to deal with a homesick elephant.

  Before I leave, I quickly get back online and try to IM Jordan.

  AngelCharlie: I’m back. Did you miss me?

  I wait. Nothing.

  AngelCharlie: Hello?

  I see “You Have Mail” lighting up my mailbox. I click on. A note from Jordan. I download it onto my hard drive, so I can save it for our future grandchildren.

  Jordan1313: Hey, it’s me. Where did you go? I guess I should be going to bed anyway. Thanks for the chat. See you Monday.

  xoxo

  Jordan

  I spend the rest of the evening helping move Cindy to a zoo, and debating what Jordan’s “xoxo” means.

  Twelve

  You gotta fight for your right to party.—Beastie Boys.

  I spent most of Saturday checking my e-mail every twenty minutes to see if Jordan had written back. Last night, I sent him a quick note explaining that I had been bumped offline, that I was sorry, and that I would love to talk with him again sometime via e-mail.

  The e-mail was light, flirty, and only a few sentences.

  It only took me an hour and a half to write.

  Jordan hadn’t written back as of 6:52 P.M., but I checked the status of the e-mail I had sent him, and it turned out he hadn’t checked his e-mail all day. So, really, his lack of response was no reflection on me.

  That night, the last Saturday night of my twenties, the limo took Kate, Dawn, and me out to a fairly trendy Western bar on Sunset Boulevard. Yes, that’s right—a Western bar. There’s a mechanical bull and everything.

  At the risk of sounding like a Hollywood snob, never go to a bar that’s been featured on E! and Sex and the City, unless it’s (A) Monday afternoon, when there’s still parking available, or (B) you have the uncontrollable urge to talk to pasty-looking tourists who are here because they “heard Madonna hangs out here” or want to know “what Jennifer Lopez is really like.”

  Now that I’ve done my official “oh, I’m too hip for the room” spiel, I’ve got to admit…I love the place. They serve a margarita the size of a trough, and they have the hottest straight bartenders in the city (male and female). The bartenders not only look good, they’ll do shots with you occasionally, which doesn’t make you feel nearly so stupid late in the evening. And did I mention the mechanical bull?

  We enter the bar, a Universal Studios version of a tavern from the wild, wild West. A man who looks like Brad Pitt’s younger brother yells to us from behind the bar, “Ladies, what can I get ya?” It’s still early, so we snag seats at the bar, and introduce ourselves to “Bob.” He recognizes Dawn (yeah—what else is new?), and gives her a big hug that seems genuine. I order a margarita, Dawn a Long Island Iced Tea, and Kate a daiquiri. “All right.” Bob flashes a smile at us, then goes to make our drinks.

  Bob reappears with shotglasses of murky green liquid which he calls “an apple martini,” then beams, “on the house, ladies. Who’s drinking with me?” He puts four shots of the green goop down on the bar. We each ta
ke a shot, and Bob takes the fourth.

  Bob lifts his glass. “Who wants to get drunk tonight?”

  We yell, “We do!”

  “Who wants to get laid tonight?”

  We yell, “We do!”

  “Who wants to get me tonight?”

  We laugh, then down our shots. It’s going to be a night to regret. I love nights like this!

  Once we have our drinks, Kate starts scanning the room. “Okay, so how does this whole meet market thing work? Is it like college? Do the men walk up to us, or can we walk up to them?”

  “It’s a hideous process of degradation designed to make us go running back to our apartments screaming for our self-help books,” Dawn says.

  “Which, of course, we would never admit to owning in a place like this,” I say.

  “I’m serious, guys,” Kate nearly whines. “I haven’t been out there in almost a decade. Just go over a few quick rules.”

  So we do: