A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I stare at my mate map, hidden from my friends, as Kate begins, “Okay, let’s start with an easy one. Hair color?”

  “I go with brown or black,” I say.

  “Blond,” Kate lets us know. “Definitely blond.”

  “I don’t care,” Dawn says, “as long as he didn’t cry watching Beaches.”

  Kate glares at Dawn. “Political party?”

  “Democrat,” I read from my board.

  “Republican,” Kate reads.

  “Or Love Story. I hated that movie,” Dawn mutters to herself. “‘Love is never having to say you’re sorry.’ What a crock. Love is constantly saying you’re sorry, even when you know damn well you’re right.”

  “Are you gonna take this seriously or not?” Kate asks.

  “I am very serious,” Dawn says, opening another bottle of champagne. “A guy who cries at movies is gonna let me know how he’s feeling every minute of the day, and I don’t need that kind of aggravation in my life.”

  I light another cigarette. “I know just what you mean. In the seventies, we told men we wanted them to tell us exactly how they felt, and what they really thought. What were we thinking? Shut up already! CSI is on.”

  “Dawn, pick a hair color and a political party, or you can’t play anymore,” Kate insists.

  Dawn rolls her eyes, pours herself another glass of champagne, then looks at her posterboard pensively. “Anyone who is a member of the Cocktail Party.”

  Kate gives up, and moves on to the next question. “Commitment?”

  “Yes!” all three of us say in unison.

  Kate points to the symbol on her posterboard. “See, I glued it right there.”

  I cock my head. “I don’t really think a prison cell should be your symbol for commitment.”

  “Schyeah,” Dawn says sarcastically, “girlfriend doesn’t have any issues there.”

  “Don’t hate,” retorts Kate.

  Dawn puts up her index finger. “Okay, you are way too white to be saying that.”

  “Job?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “I don’t care as long as he’s happy.”

  “Political investigator, or rock ’n’ roll legend,” Kate reads.

  “Political?…Isn’t that what Mike does?” I ask Kate.

  “Coincidentally, yes,” Kate admits.

  “Mike, the fair-haired Republican,” Dawn adds.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault Mike looks so good on paper,” Kate acknowledges. Her cell phone rings.

  “Don’t pick up!” Dawn and I say in unison.

  Kate reads her caller ID. “I won’t. It’s not Mike. It’s Jack.” She throws her cell phone down on my coffee table. As she stares at it, she asks, “If a guy says he’ll call you, how many days does he usually wait?”

  Uh-oh. “Well,” I begin cautiously, “it depends on the guy….”

  “Don’t call him,” Dawn says definitively to Kate.

  Kate furrows her brow. “I wasn’t going to call him,” she says dismissively.

  “Good. Because if he doesn’t call you, it means he’s not interested.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kate says dryly.

  “And don’t believe him when he runs into you at a club in three months and says he ‘lost your number,’” Dawn continues.

  Kate squints her eyes, observing her. “Have you got any more dating tips for me?” she asks sarcastically.

  “Always,” Dawn says, smirking. She knows she’s being made fun of. She doesn’t care. She gives her advice cheerfully, without the slightest hint of malice. “One. Your future husband ain’t at a club. Two. Your future boyfriend ain’t at a club. Three. If he doesn’t call you within twelve hours of the first time you kissed—Next! Forget he ever existed. Have your own private little Spotless Mind memory erase, then move on.”

  Kate laughs, shaking her head. “Wow. I hope I never get that cynical.”

  Dawn smiles a genuine smile. “Me too,” she says sweetly, then leans over to give Kate a kiss on the cheek. “Your lack of cynicism is one of my favorite things about you.”

  Which is a really sweet thing to say, and probably even true.

  But, sadly, the rules that Dawn gave were definitely true.

  Sixteen

  When you get really depressed at how unfair the world is, remember: half the planet didn’t get a clean drink of water today.

  Normally, I am comforted by that statement. Really. I know I’m lucky to live where I do, have the friends I have, and the job, and all that. But right now, all I can focus on are the things I don’t have, instead of the things I do.

  After the girls go home, I race to my computer to see if Jordan is online. He isn’t. I pour myself another glass of champagne, and hang around the Internet for about a half hour (my new version of waiting by the phone). Then I give up for the night.

  I decide to lie in bed with the rest of the Veuve Clicquot and watch a Behind the Music episode about Destiny’s Child. Beyoncé has just told us that they were not the overnight sensation everyone keeps saying they were. “We paid our dues,” she lets us know. She was nineteen at the time. Time for some more words of wisdom:

  No one can ever say they’ve “paid their dues” at the age of nineteen, unless they’ve just won the gold medal in women’s gymnastics.

  It’s a little after midnight, and I can’t sleep. I flip through the channels on the TV, and I see the following statistic: ninety percent of teenagers lie to their parents. All I can think is, “Until they turn twenty-one, at which time the number jumps up to one hundred percent.”

  Lie to your parents. They so rarely want the truth anyway.

  I mean, really, when your mom asks, “So, have you fallen in love lately?” does she really want to hear, “No, but I am sleeping with a guy who’s been divorced twice, and won’t buy me dinner.”

  I flip the channel. There’s the inaugural address from the president of Peru. Thank God for satellite TV—I might have missed this.

  Flip. Blue’s Clues. At 12:15. Are there a lot of kids up at 12:15 dying to find out how to make chartreuse out of green and yellow?

  Flip. The original Family Feud from the 1970s. “Name something a man picks up on his way to a date.” Oddly, condom is not the number one answer. I wait to see all the answers pop up. No condom. Ah, those glorious seventies, when the only thing you had to worry about getting was pregnant.

  Flip. An old Friends rerun. Jennifer Aniston as Rachel is upset because she’s just met Ross’s new girlfriend, Julie.

  I turn off my TV and stare at my book of wisdom, ready to cry. I remind myself again that I am very lucky to live where I do, have the job that I have, and friends that I love. But tonight, here in my bedroom, all by myself, I’m ready to burst into tears. I’m thirty. Thirty years old. Who’d have thought the last ten years would have gone so fast? I’m officially old. And, let’s face it, I’m never going to be Jennifer Aniston. I’m never going to be as beautiful, or as rich, or as famous. Hell, why stop there? I’m never going to be as smart as Albert Einstein, or as great a writer as Tolstoy, as historically important as John F. Kennedy…

  I was supposed to be married by now. My sister will be married when she’s thirty. Hell, she’ll have a kid. I’m never going to get married. I’m never going to have kids.

  I have a lot of things in this world—I know I shouldn’t be depressed. There are people in this world who have never had a hot soapy shower or a pint of ice cream. I’ve had both tonight.

  But I can’t help it. There comes a moment in your life when you realize that no matter how hard you try, you’re never going to be fluent in Spanish. Or go on that African safari you’ve read about since you were a kid. Or be as excited as you used to be about catching fireflies. I keep trying to find my answer to life—and it gets more elusive the older I get.

  I always thought that by this point in my life I’d be married to a wonderful man, with a four-year-old named Samantha, a two-year-old named Ben, and a third one on the way. And a do
g—I always wanted a dog.

  The phone rings. If it’s Dave, I’m going to invite him over—so I can kill him in his sleep. I pick up. “Hello.”

  “I need you to come over,” Drew says urgently.

  Not tonight. I really can’t deal with this tonight. “Drew, it’s after midnight. I’m tired and I’m drunk. Whatever it is, I am sure it will keep until morning.”

  “Actually, it won’t. You need to come now.”

  He’s being awfully cryptic. “Is there a dead woman in your bed?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Did you adopt a hippo that the neighbors are complaining about?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then it’ll keep until tomorrow. I’m really upset right now, I’m too drunk to drive, and you really do not want to push me tonight.”

  Drew’s silent for a while. “Clearly…I have done something to upset you,” he says calmly. “And…obviously I am remorseful of this, and need to make it up to you.”

  Well, that’s more like it. “Yes, you do,” I say, totally sure of myself.

  “And what can I do that will show you how sorry I am for whatever I have done to wrong you?” Drew asks.

  “You can let me stay home tonight,” I say, proud of myself for standing up to him and his silly demands.

  “Yeah, okay, that’s not gonna happen,” Drew says, his voice changing back immediately. “So let’s say I take you to London next month, and we take you shopping. Meanwhile, you come here now.”

  “I’m not…you can’t just…Oh, hell.”

  Thirty minutes later, a cab brings me to Drew’s place. I press the intercom to his gate, but he doesn’t answer. Hmm. I press the code to let myself in. As the cab pulls up to Drew’s front door, I see there are no lights on downstairs. The place looks deserted. Looks kind of spooky. I pull out my cell, and call Drew.

  “Yo,” he answers.

  “I’m out front.”

  “Okay, pay the cabbie. And don’t come in until you see he’s driven off. I’m in the bathroom.”

  I have no idea what to make of this, but I hang up, pay the cab driver, and watch him leave. Once his taillights disappear from the road, I let myself into Drew’s home. “Hello?” I yell from the front door.

  “I’m up here!” Drew yells from upstairs. “Come on up! I’m in the master bath!”

  I start to walk up the stairs, feeling a little creeped out. He’s being awfully cryptic. “Are you dressed?” I yell to him as I climb the top step, then move down the hall toward his bedroom and the master bath.

  “Not exactly!” Drew yells to me.

  I get to the doorway of his bedroom, and stop. No blood—that’s probably a good sign. I return to my normal voice. “Do you need me to find some guy to help you get dressed?”

  “No,” Drew says, panicked. “No guys. No one but you.”

  I take a deep breath to brace myself, then walk into Drew’s bathroom. I would say I recoil in horror, but frankly nothing I see surprises me.

  There’s Drew, in nothing but a pair of silk boxer shorts, and his arm stuck down the toilet. We exchange glances.

  “I can explain,” Drew says.

  I walk in and quickly examine my surroundings. Drew has redone his whole bathroom to match his trailer. The walls are a deep blue, the towels look rich and exotic. And there are candles, incense, and elephants everywhere. “You don’t need to explain,” I say. “My truth is just an illusion. I think my movie star boss has his hand stuck in a toilet, but really I’m a frustrated housewife from Sheboygan who wants to break out of Wisconsin and become a porn star.”

  “Just get me out,” Drew demands.

  I walk over to Drew, and donut my arms around his naked waist. “All right, at the count of three, I’m going to pull you—one, two, three…Ugh!” We both pull, but to no avail. “Okay, try again. One, two, three…Ugh!” My palms must be sweaty, because my hands slip off his stomach and I fall to the ground. “Let me call a plumber.”

  “No! No plumbers!” Drew practically barks at me. “I can’t have this in Star magazine. I can just see the headline: ‘Sexiest Man Alive’s Secret Flushed Out.’”

  He has a point. “Okay,” I say, standing up and walking over to the toilet to look inside. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, and we’ll figure this out together?”

  “I was decorating my bathroom to be more in line with my spiritual beliefs. I had the room painted, got new towels, and I got all these cool Ganeshes. So, I’m putting them around my bathroom, when one fell down the toilet. I tried to reach in and grab it, only I forgot that I was wearing my Rolex, and I guess it got caught on something, because now I’m stuck.”

  Yeah, it could happen to anyone. I look inside the toilet. “Well, maybe if we flush, the water pressure will sort of push your arm out.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not flushing God down the toilet! What would that do to my karma?”

  I try to give him the best you are such an idiot look I can muster, but he just stares at me blankly. Finally, I look around for bubble bath. “Hold on,” I say, then grab some L’Occitane Lavender from his tub and pour it into the bowl. Drew looks into the bowl, curious. “What’s this going to do?”

  I put my hand in the toilet bowl, and start soaping up what I can of his arm. “Hopefully, it’s going to make your arm, and the pipe, slippery enough that we can pull you out.”

  Half a bottle later, I get back behind him, and donut my arms around him again. “Okay, one, two, three…Ugh!” Drew comes out flying, landing on top of me. Yup, naked sexy guy on top of me—backward. This is exactly how I wanted to start my thirtieth birthday.

  Drew stands up and washes himself off. “Fabulous. Can I get you a glass of Cristal?”

  I sit on the bath mat in a stupor thinking, How exactly did I get here? “Yeah. I suppose.”

  Drew looks at his toilet bowl. “Your arm’s smaller. Would you mind retrieving my Ganesh?”

  I would say I stared daggers at him, and told him what I thought of that request, but I’d be lying. I just put my hand down the toilet, grabbed the little red elephant, and threw it to him.

  Two minutes later, we are downstairs in Drew’s well-appointed kitchen. Drew has put on a bathrobe and is pulling a bottle of Cristal champagne from his refrigerator while I pull some champagne flutes from his cupboard. I want to burst into tears. I don’t think my life could get any lower than having to retrieve something from a toilet.

  “You okay?” Drew asks as he pours the champagne. “You look…weird.”

  That came out of nowhere. I’m jarred by the question. I thought I was doing better at covering up my depression. “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a little tired.”

  “Oh,” Drew says. “Cheers.” He clinks his glass with mine.

  “Yeah,” I say sadly. “Happy birthday to me.”

  “Your birthday’s today?” Drew asks, genuinely surprised.

  “Yes. You threw me a party, remember?”

  “Well, yeah. But I didn’t know it was today. That’s why you’re all bummed out? Just because it’s your birthday?”

  “Kind of,” I say, shrugging and taking a sip of my champagne. “It’s complicated and boring, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I tell you about stuff that’s complicated and boring all the time.”

  “Yes. But you pay me to listen to you,” I half joke.

  “Hmm,” Drew says. Then he walks over to my purse and hands it to me. “That’ll be one dollar.”

  I smile at him, touched by the sentiment. Oh hell, I’m drunk. What could it hurt to just tell the truth?

  In vino veritas—in wine there is truth.

  I pull my wallet from my purse, pull out a dollar…then let him have it. “I don’t want to turn thirty in six hours. Which, by the way, is when I’m officially thirty. I’m not ready to be old yet. Just eight years ago, I was in college, and I could do anything I wanted. I hate that I’ve alre
ady made choices. And I hate that even with all I’ve learned over the years, I still wait by the phone, and still feel bad when men don’t call me.”

  “God,” Drew says, looking genuinely pained for me. “That must be painful.”

  “What? Getting old?” I ask. I put my wallet back in my purse, then pull out a pack of cigarettes. I offer Drew one.

  “No. Waiting by the phone,” Drew says, taking a cigarette from me. “Do women still do that?”

  My God! For an Academy Award–nominated actor, he sure can be dense. “Yes, we wait by the phone!” I bark, taking out a cigarette and putting it up to my lips. “Jesus, men can be stupid. No offense.”

  “None taken. I can be incredibly stupid,” Drew says, grabbing a silver lighter from the counter and lighting my cigarette. “I hate being the asshole who doesn’t call. I mean, I always mean to call again.”

  “So why don’t you?” I ask, maybe a little too angrily.

  Drew lights his cigarette. Takes a long puff before he speaks. “Well, I can have a good time on a date no matter what. I mean, I’ve been on dates when it’s been like talking to a brick wall. But I can have fun at a tax audit, so I usually have fun anyway.”

  He continues, “But I know women, and after a few dates they start thinking about the future. Which means I have to start thinking about the future. And, usually, the girl is great, or I wouldn’t have dated her at all. But she’s not the one. So if she’s thinking about the future, I better not keep her hopes up by going out with her again. I don’t want to hurt her. But then, I’m stuck. What do I do now? Call her and say, ‘Hi, I don’t think we should see each other anymore because I don’t want a commitment’? The girl would either think I was conceited, nuts, or a complete jerk.”

  I take another sip of champagne, and think about that. He’s right. If anyone ever called me to tell me he didn’t want to give me something I hadn’t even asked for, I’d think he was a complete asshole, and I’d repeat what he said to all my friends as a dating war story. “I guess you’re right,” I say more brightly than I expected. “I never thought about it that way.”