“Charlie, can you give him a check for fifteen hundred dollars?” Drew says to me, then turns to Jordan. “The extra five hundred will cover prints, right?”
Honestly, some people don’t even vaguely live in the real world.
“That is more than enough,” Jordan says, and shakes Drew’s hand. “If you ever need me for a party again…”
“Oh, I might,” Drew says immediately, looking at me. “I think Charlie mentioned something about having Magic Johnson over for dinner….”
“Good-bye, Drew,” I say sternly, pushing Jordan out the door.
Drew yells after us. “Of course, Charlie would know! She’s at all my parties!”
The door closes, and we walk over to Drew’s trailer, so I can cut a check for Jordan.
The rest of the day I didn’t get to spend on set. Instead, I had to drive out to Drew’s cabin at Lake Arrowhead, two and a half hours away, to deal with a pipe that had burst over the weekend. Yeah—tell me I don’t lead a glamorous life working in show business.
There’s a story of a janitor who works in the circus, cleaning up the animal poop. When he complains to his friend about cleaning up poop all day, the friend suggests he quit. “What,” the janitor says, horrified, “and give up show business?”
Anyway, by the time I get back, it is seven o’clock, and they have just wrapped for the day. I look around for Jordan briefly, but he is gone, so I make my way over to Drew’s trailer.
Drew is out cold on a brand-new white couch. When I open the door, he bursts up into a sitting position. “I’m up!”
“It’s just me,” I say, throwing my stuff down on a white table and falling into a white chair. His trailer is now done in all white: white couches, white carpet, chairs, tables, lamps, walls. Everything’s white, white, white. “What happened to all the Ganeshes?” I ask.
Drew sits up. “I talked to a psychic on the phone today. She said the toilet thing was a sign. I need to be in harmony with my chakras. Hence, nothing but neutrals.”
I won’t even ask. “I just saw Madison. He’s ready to drive you home.”
“Wait. I have something for you,” Drew says eagerly, then walks over to his new white desk and pulls out a small, purplish brown box wrapped with a copper-colored string bow. “Happy birthday.”
I take it, and read the top of the box. In gold lettering are the words BURKE WILLIAMS, BEYOND THE SPA.
I pull off the bow and open the box. Inside is a cream-colored card stating that this certificate entitles Charlize Edwards to a “Stress Therapy Day” compliments of Drew Stanton.
I stare at it and try to come up with an appropriate response.
When someone presents you with a gift, no matter how strange, do not respond with “Huh?” “Yikes!” or “What the hell is it?”
I’d been hinting for lots of things I’ll never buy for myself: a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, a Prada bag, dinner at The Palm. Burke Williams is one of the hottest day spas in L.A. Anyone who even vaguely knows me knows that I’ve never been to a spa, I have no desire to go to a spa, and that I think they are a waste of…I read further: he spent over $500 on this!
You will always know people who have more dollars than sense.
As I continue to stare at the gift in silence, Drew looks at me and smiles, proud of himself. “You love it, don’t you?” he says confidently. “Dawn helped me pick it out. You get a private herbal bath, a full massage, something called an Emilee’s Intrigue—which includes another massage, a Hunter’s Retreat, and an Ultimate Facial—complete with foot massage. And I’ve included all the tips, too, so it’s totally free!”
All I can think is, Dear God, I work for Niles Crane. I feel like a mother who’s just been given crayons for her birthday from her three-year-old. I glue a smile onto my face and look him right in the eyes. “I love it.”
“I knew you would!” Drew exclaims proudly. “Well, actually, I asked Dawn, and she said you would.”
“Did Dawn happen to say why I would love it?” I ask.
“Yeah. She said you needed to do something about those clogged pores if you wanted to capture Jordan’s attention.”
“I don’t have clogged pores,” I say, bristling.
“She said you’d say that,” Drew tells me, “and that I’m supposed to tell you that you’ve had clogged pores since the day she met you. And not to get all huffy.”
Lovely.
“And she also says, and I am to quote her exactly, ‘And don’t be acting like this is some dumb-ass gift because, girl, you ain’t never been to a spa, so don’t be saying you don’t like something you haven’t even tried.’”
I look at Drew—the classically trained actor—and I am immediately suspicious. “She said ‘ain’t even tried,’ didn’t she?”
“Yes. But I didn’t think I could pull that off,” Drew admits. “Anyway, Dawn’s coming with me to the wrap party Friday night. You guys should go Friday afternoon, before the party. You can have the day off.”
“What do you mean ‘we guys’?” I ask.
“Well, I didn’t want you to go alone, so I got her a ‘Stress Therapy Day,’ too.”
Yeah, because I’m really going to want to be around her right now.
Drew hands me the spa’s “menu” of the services provided. I must say, it does sound rather indulgent. There’s a steam room and a Jacuzzi, too. And I do like Jacuzzis. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
“What’s an Emilee’s Intrigue?” I ask, reading the menu.
“Spelled with two e’s. It’s this thing where they cover you with eucalyptus leaves, wrap you in hot towels, and immerse you in steam.”
What am I? A tamale?
“It’s supposed to get rid of all the toxins in your body,” Drew continues. “Then they give you a full-body massage afterwards.”
I continue reading. “And then I get another body massage?”
“You can never have too many massages.”
Well—can’t argue with him there.
“Dawn says that spa days for women are necessary, the way golf is for men,” Drew tells me.
“Dawn also says, ‘So many men, so few who can afford us,’” I remind him.
“Well, she’s right,” Drew agrees. “Besides, when was the last time you had people putting all their energy into trying to make your day perfect?”
Hmm…Good point.
And I suppose I can always hint for a Prada bag at Christmas.
Eighteen
Parents should not make mistakes. They do anyway. Love them anyway.
This will be the only time I ever utter the following words: Dinner with my family that night was uneventful. I mean, the presents I got were indeed disasters, but I had been warned ahead of time, so it wasn’t so bad. And I suppose Frederik Fekkai beats Supercuts.
Kate and Dawn then gave me the birthday present of letting me cancel on our after-dinner drinks, so I could pass out that night.
I spent the next two days off the set, doing all those boring things you hear about celebrity assistants doing: picking up dry cleaning, going to business managers and lawyers and picking up financial papers, meeting the cable guy at Drew’s house, meeting the plumber at Drew’s house, setting up appointments with Drew’s dentist, shrink, and psychic (don’t ask).
Thursday, I spent the whole day at gyms, interviewing personal trainers for Drew. Each one was supposed to give me a “sample session” of what Drew could expect on a given day. That meant that I was theoretically supposed to work out five different times that day.
Uh, yeah.
No matter how successful you are, no one can work out for you.
Now, you would think that would be the kind of advice you would never have to give a person. But maybe my great-grandniece will be an ultrasuccessful mega moviestar, in which case she might also be an idiot who pays her assistant to go through five personal training sessions in one day.
I came up with a few more bits of advice for my journal during those few days:
Ch
ase your dreams daily. I’m not just talking about the big dreams, obviously if you want to be a great baseball player, or ballerina, or artist you must work at it every day. I mean, chase the little dreams. If you dream of having an ice cream cone one day, go out and get one. If you dream of going to the beach another day, jump into your car and go.
Spend a night listening to the bartender’s problems.
There is nothing more painful in life than to be invisible. Try never to make anyone in your life feel that way.
Embrace all cultures.
If the Coffee Bean/Tea Leaf still exists in 2100 and whatever—go get an ice blended mocha. They are ambrosia—the gods drank these on Mount Olympus.
Get your hands on the DVD (or whatever technology is the 22nd-century equivalent) of a TV show from the 1970s called The Mary Tyler Moore Show. It describes not only how single girls felt during the 1970s, but also how we felt in the 2000s.
Buy real estate. They’re not making any more land.
No one likes to be judged. If you’re going to advise someone, do it without judgment.
All mothers should read that one.
Never scold someone. Making someone feel bad about themselves shouldn’t make you feel better about yourself.
All heads of security on game-show sets, not to mention self-important assistant producers on soap operas, should read that one.
Don’t do something just because everyone else is doing it.
I started to write, If everyone else jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge…but then I stopped myself, because it’s not the same. If everyone else was carrying their stuff in a Kate Spade bag, I’d have one in a second. As a matter of fact, I do.
But it’s usually good advice.
I spent the evenings checking my e-mail and seeing if Jordan was online, but he never was.
That Thursday evening, while I was online, my sister forwarded me an e-mail honoring Erma Bombeck, who wrote a list called “If I Had to Live My Life Over” after she found out she had terminal cancer.
Don’t worry about who doesn’t like you, who has more, or who’s doing what.—Erma Bombeck
It struck me for some reason, so I decided to pass it on.
I was just about to get offline when I got an IM:
Jordan1313: Charlie? So what are you doing home alone on a Thursday night?
He called! Well, sort of.
AngelCharlie: Who said I’m alone? I’m kidding. It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve missed you this week.
Which is true.
Jordan1313: Yeah, me too. Debating basketball hasn’t been nearly as much fun without you. What have you been doing with your days?
AngelCharlie: Well, today I worked out with five different trainers at five different gyms.
Jordan1313: Wow! I knew you had to work out to get a body like that, but I didn’t know it was that excruciating.
A body like that? Is he kidding?! He’s flirting. That’s not my imagination—he’s flirting.
AngelCharlie: Speaking of Wow’s—Wow, that’s quite a line. You don’t get a body like this through exercise. You get it through indiscriminate eating. Anyway, I was just interviewing personal trainers for Drew. I didn’t manage to do the whole five hours.
Jordan1313: How many did you do?
AngelCharlie: I did most of the first session, and most of the second session. When the third session’s trainer saw me come in with an In-N-Out burger in one hand, and a chocolate shake in the other, the guy knew this was a desk interview.
Jordan1313: LOL. I didn’t see you the rest of Monday. Did you have a good birthday?
AngelCharlie: It was wonderful.
You don’t always have to lie through your teeth. Sometimes, you can lie with your fingers tap, tap, tapping away. If I said it was fine, instead of wonderful, it might look like I’m being negative or pessimistic. If I mentioned my crazy family, it might scare him away (God knows there are days when they scare me away). So I decide to keep my responses upbeat, positive, and light.
Not that I’m overthinking this—I’m not.
AngelCharlie: I love your present. I put the picture up on my mantle. You have amazing talent.
He doesn’t write for a while. I can’t tell if he’s checking other e-mail or Web sites, or if I somehow wrote the wrong thing. I look at what I wrote. I don’t think I said anything bad.
Jordan1313: Thank you.
He finally writes,
Jordan1313: So, since we wrapped today, do you have to work tomorrow?
AngelCharlie: No, Drew gave me the day off.
Jordan1313: Cool. Do you want to go to the beach with me before the party?
Shit, shit, shit. Now I take a while to write.
AngelCharlie: I’m afraid I can’t. Drew got me this spa day for my birthday, and it’s tomorrow. I’m really sorry. Can I take a rain check?
Jordan1313: Spa day, huh? My mom loves those.
Great. Now I’m reminding him of his mother.
Jordan1313: It was just a couple of crew guys hanging at the beach before the big wrap party. No big deal. But, of course, the scenery would be more beautiful with you in a bathing suit.
That is definitely flirting.
Jordan1313: I’m gonna go grab a beer. Can you hold on?
And that is definitely flirting.
AngelCharlie: Of course. I could use a glass of wine myself.
Jordan1313: Now, no getting cut off.
AngelCharlie: If I do, wait for me.
I run downstairs, open a bottle of Clos du Bois Merlot, pour myself a glass, and happily take the glass and the bottle back upstairs with me.
When I get back Jordan is writing:
Jordan1313: Doo, dee, doo, doo, dee, doo…such a girl…you make me wait for you…
AngelCharlie: What was I gone for? A minute?
Jordan1313: Hey, if you thought that was only a minute, you’d think I was a genius in bed.
Oh. My. God.
AngelCharlie: I would, huh?
Jordan1313: I’m sorry. I’m getting flirty, aren’t I? You can just ignore me.
AngelCharlie: I can’t imagine being able to ignore you. So what are you wearing?
Jordan1313: Tonight, I’ve moved on to a bridesmaid’s dress and flip-flops.
AngelCharlie: I hate you.
Jordan1313: Why?
AngelCharlie: Well, for one thing, you’ve killed any chances I’ve had of flirting. And, for another thing, you’ve just reminded me of being a maid of honor at a wedding in two weeks.
Jordan1313: Wow. Maid of honor. I was a maid of honor once.
I wait a moment before I type.
AngelCharlie: I have no response to that. You’ve rendered me speechless.
Jordan1313: Proving again that you would think I’m great in bed—it being so easy to render you speechless. No, I was a male maid of honor for my sister’s wedding. I got to wear a tuxedo.
AngelCharlie: Well, then you managed to avoid the worst part of being a bridesmaid—the outfit.
Jordan1313: God, for me the worst part was how crazed my sister got. Has your friend called you in hysterics and made you come over to see how one bridesmaid’s dyed-to-match shoes are half a shade lighter than the other bridemaid’s dyed-to-match shoes?
AngelCharlie: SOL (Smiled out loud.) I know you’re telling the truth about being a maid of honor. You’ve just used the words “dyed-to-match shoes” in a sentence.
Jordan1313: Wait—this’ll really impress you. Teal. Puce. Fuchsia.
AngelCharlie: SOL. But you’re a photographer. You could have know those colors anyway.
Jordan1313: Hmmm…
I wait. I assume he’s typing something. After about thirty seconds this pops up…
Jordan1313: Registry (a word that goes with the sentence, “What the hell was she thinking? Moss-colored plates?”) Seating chart (which goes with, “You can’t put those two anywhere near each other. They had a fight in 1952.”) Response card (which goes well with, “Oh my God, they’re bringin
g their children. The kids aren’t on the invitation.” and “He’s bringing a date. The invitation specifically didn’t say ‘plus one’.”)
AngelCharlie: LOL. You really were a maid of honor. I’m gonna guess your mother made the plates comment.
Jordan1313: Yeah. My sister and mom don’t have the best relationship. It’s not bad, they just always seem to be picking at each other.
AngelCharlie: What a shock. You’ve just described every woman and her mother I’ve ever met. It’s my sister’s wedding, too. A little over two weeks from now, so I would say the craziness has started, but it started when she announced her engagement six weeks ago.
Jordan1313: Well, at least you get it over with in two months. Mine took over a year. And, I got to tell you, the brother has to remain calm no matter what. So, what are you wearing?
Hmmmm…
AngelCharlie: A red velvet teddy and high-heeled pumps.
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 17