A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “Yes,” Sean says with such intensity I’m sure he’ll one day play Hamlet on Broadway.

  Jenn takes the cherry out of his glass, eats it, then grabs two slices of lime from a plastic container on the bar, and throws them into Alex’s glass. “Here’s two. Knock yourself out.” She grabs two more and throws them into Sean’s glass.

  “Now, can you bring Daddy his drink?” Jenn asks, handing Alex a vodka tonic.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Oh.” Jenn leans down to be at eye level with them. “And what’s the special rule for tonight and tomorrow?”

  “We don’t talk about Grandpa’s or Great Aunt Jacquie’s funny cigarettes in front of the new family,” the boys say in unison.

  “And if the new family brings them up, what do we say?” Jenn asks in a soft motherly voice.

  “They both have cancer. It’s very sad,” the boys say, again in unison, not a trace of sadness in their voices.

  “Good boys,” Jenn says proudly, and gives them both a hug. “Now, go find your father.”

  The two run off. “I’m afraid to even ask,” I say to her, then turn to the bartender. “Quadruple Jack Daniel’s, please. No rocks.”

  “Just a preliminary precaution. Earlier tonight, my father asked Andy’s soon-to-be mother-in-law if she knew what it was like to be high on cocaine,” Jenn says as the bartender hands her a club soda.

  “Oh, shit,” I say, grimacing.

  “Wait, it gets better. So she looks confused, and I quickly say to him, ‘No, she doesn’t, and neither do you.’ To which my father then looks confused, so before he could talk again I stuck a cigar in his mouth and told him to go smoke outside, and that I heard a rumor there were Cubans floating about.”

  “Fast thinking,” I say, impressed.

  “Yeah,” Jenn said, sighing. “Unfortunately, then Dad said, ‘I thought tonight’s herb was from Maui—not Cuba,’ and I had to push him outside, then explain to Joan that mother had recently bought some Hawaiian sage and rosemary from Penzees, and that’s what Dad meant by ‘herb.’”

  “Do they even grow sage and rosemary—” I start to ask.

  “I have no idea,” Jenn says, sipping her soda.

  I sigh. “Well, I don’t think that’s as bad as Grandma telling Joan they shouldn’t have picked this place, where the shrimp is twenty-two ninety-five a plate, because if they had held the rehearsal dinner at a Sizzler we could have had all-you-can-eat shrimp for twelve ninety-five, with bread included.”

  “And why your industry applauds child molesters!” Grandpa booms in his loud Midwestern voice to Dad. Jenn and I both slowly turn our heads around. “I mean, how you can show your face in public!”

  The bartender puts the glass of Jack down. Andy walks up to us, takes Dad’s drink, and downs it in one gulp. I put my hand out to the bartender. “You know what? Just give me the bottle.”

  He does. I refill Dad’s glass with the bottle of Jack, gently take Mawv’s hand, and lead her toward them.

  “Dad needs help,” I tell her. “And Grandma and Grandpa are embarrassing Andy in front of her future in-laws.”

  “I’ll take no prisoners,” Mawv tells me.

  We get back to Bill, Joan, Dad, and Grandpa. A group has now formed around them that includes my mother. Mom begins, “Dad, this is not an appropriate time—”

  “The hell it isn’t!” Grandpa says, then points his finger at my Dad’s chest. “You know, if you were giving my little girl enough sex in the first place, she wouldn’t be dating that child.”

  Hunter’s parents gasp. Mom shakes her head. “Chris is twenty-nine, Dad.”

  “And how old’s Andy?” he asks accusingly.

  Mom looks at her shoes sheepishly. “Twenty-nine.”

  “Which is the same age as one of your children,” Grandpa says to her.

  I bring Mawv over to the group. She doesn’t lose a moment. “Rose, we just saw Charles Nelson Reilly coming out of the men’s room.”

  “Charles Nelson…Father, get your camera.” And the two of them scramble off.

  The rest of the rehearsal dinner bordered on depressing—for me, anyway.

  After all of the romantic toasts to the soon-to-be newlyweds, and all of the toasts about how love makes you whole, and about how you only get one true love in life, and about how it’s God’s plan that we each go through eternity with our one soul mate (that would be Grandma’s toast), I go home to an empty house.

  First, I walk up to my bedroom and check the answering machine. Two messages! Yay! The first message is from Drew, telling me that he’d see me tomorrow, and was looking forward to the wedding. The next message was from Andy to commiserate over how nuts our family is.

  No message from Jordan. Not that I care.

  Much.

  God, I’m gonna die alone. No, worse, I’m gonna die surrounded by cats with stupid names like “Wuggles,” “Kitty Carlyle,” and “Catmandu.”

  All right, stop it. I am not going to dwell on my singleness, I am going to enjoy it.

  I bring a bunch of white candles into my bathroom, line them around the room, and light them while I draw a L’Occitane Lavender bubble bath. I strip out of my clothes, slip into the tub, and bask in the silence.

  And the phone rings.

  For a woman, listening to the phone ring is like being a cat watching a string dangled in front of it—we can’t help ourselves, it is in our genetic makeup to go grab that phone!

  I immediately jump out of the tub and head to the bedroom, leaving a sudsy trail out of my bathroom, down the hallway, and to the bedroom phone. “Hello?”

  “You should be reveling in your singleness right now,” my cousin Jenn says sternly.

  My shoulders slump, and I take the phone back to the tub with me. “Yeah, that’s me,” I say, without a hint of glee. “Glorious single woman. Woo-hoo.”

  “You haven’t taken up smoking again, have you?” Jenn asks.

  “No, I haven’t!” I say, sounding appalled that she would think so little of me. When, in reality, the only reason I haven’t taken it up again is because I don’t want Grandma smelling cigarettes on my breath tomorrow. By Sunday night, I intend to light up like a three-week-old Christmas tree.

  “Hold on,” Jenn says, and I hear her yell to her husband, “Rob! Has it occurred to you that if you let the boys leap off the couch, one of them is going to crack his head open, Superman cape or no?”

  “Is that Auntie Charlie?” four-year-old Alex asks in the cutest voice ever. “I wanna talk, I wanna talk!”

  “Charlie, someone wants to talk to you,” Jenn says, and then I hear her number-one son come on the line. “Auntie Charlie, I’ll walk down the aisle with you.”

  “You will?” I say, my voice immediately softening. “Well, that’s very nice, but I think you and Sean should walk down the aisle together.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the ring bearers are supposed to walk down the aisle first, and they’re supposed to go together. The maid of honor is supposed to walk down the aisle second to last.”

  “But then you’ll have to walk down the aisle alone,” Alex says, his voice dripping with worry.

  “Well, that’s okay,” I reassure him.

  “But…Daddy says the reason you looked so sad tonight was because you had no one to walk down the aisle with.”

  “Shit!” I hear Jenn yell before her voice goes back into calm Mommy mode. “Sweetie, give Mommy the phone.”

  “But I want to walk down the aisle with Auntie Charlie.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” I hear Jenn say in a mild panic. “Now can you give Mommy the phone back?”

  “I love you!” Alex screams as I hear Jenn rip the phone out of his hand. “I am soooo sorry,” she says.

  “That’s okay,” I say, but really I want to drown myself in my lavender bathwater. “Did I look that depressed tonight?”

  “What? No!” Jenn says, like that’s the silliest thing she’s ever heard.

  “T
hen why are you calling me?”

  “Because I love you. And Rob loves you. And the boys, too. And…we just wanted you to know that.”

  I get back in the tub. “I love you, too. Very much.”

  We’re both silent, as Jenn tries to think of something comforting to say. “Marriage isn’t a panacea.”

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes it downright sucks.”

  “I know that, too.”

  More silence. Finally Jenn says, “What are we babbling about? You’re totally going to find someone.”

  “Yeah.”

  More silence. “I’m sorry I screwed up your night even more,” Jenn says.

  “You didn’t. Hey, thanks for calling. You actually made me feel better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. See you in Andy’s room at ten tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me—I’m taking a bubble bath and must go.”

  “Wow. I’m so jealous. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Bye,” I say, then click off the phone and let it fall to the bathmat.

  Okay, so I lied. Truth is, she made me feel so much worse.

  Thirty-One

  Truly great sitcoms only have two really great seasons—Season 2 and 3. Before that, they spend too much time establishing characters. After that, it’s all downhill.

  Right now, it’s three A.M. and I’m watching a Cosby Show rerun. I think once the grandchildren tried to be cute, they should have packed up and closed down the shop.

  But, that aside, my favorite scenes are always the ones with Heathcliff and his wife Claire. I want a husband like that. He’s cute, and sweet, and funny, and even though they’ve been married for almost thirty years, he’s still totally in love with his wife.

  And he’s a fictional character. And, right now watching him, I start crying.

  I miss Jordan. I know, I shouldn’t. I know, really, that it’s not him I miss, it’s the idea of him. It’s the idea of having a guy to spoon with at night, a guy to go to weddings with, a guy who I want to share my day with, and who I want to know everything about. I know it’s not him.

  But it is him. I miss the way he smells. I miss his flirty e-mails. I miss knowing how he’s doing.

  I walk over to my computer and check my e-mail. Still nothing from him.

  Oh, what the hell. I write him a quick note.

  Hey, it’s me. I just wanted to tell you that I miss you, and that I hope everything is working out for you.

  love,

  Charlie

  And I hit SEND.

  Love. What a loaded word. But, I reason, I always write “love, Charlie” with anyone I care about. Because I might die tomorrow, and if I do, I want everyone I care about to know that I love them. So “love” is okay.

  Damn it. I don’t want to look like a stalker. I go back online and check the status of his e-mail. “Unread.” Good. I hit UNSEND. Then I start over.

  Hi, it’s me. Just wanted to tell you that I was thinking about you, and I hope all is well in your kingdom.

  xoxo

  Charlie

  SEND.

  I turn the computer off.

  It’s done, don’t think about it anymore.

  Twenty minutes later, I check Status, then hit UNSEND. I try writing again.

  Hi, it’s me. Was wondering if you were free for a drink sometime next week.

  Let me know.

  Cheers!

  Charlie

  SEND.

  Yes, that should be fine. Now go to bed.

  Ten minutes after that, I turn my computer back on. What the hell am I thinking, asking him out for a drink? Even if I do miss him, he’s a creep, and I need to get on with my life. I hit UNSEND without even bothering to check on the e-mail’s status.

  “Cannot unsend mail that has been read.”

  Been read. God. Damn. It.

  I check the status. He just read it five minutes ago. No response back. Maybe he’s online.

  I try to IM him—he’s not online.

  Okay, stay calm. Think. I know, he has that automatic download mail function, so it just automatically downloads mail to his computer every few hours. So he might not have even read it yet. That’s probably why he hasn’t responded. Yeah, that’s it.

  So, he’ll respond in the morning, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I should just go to bed.

  I try to go back to bed. But after ten minutes of staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, I call him. And get his machine. “Hi, I’m out. Leave a message.” Beep.

  “Hey, it’s me…Charlie…Um…I saw you just read my e-mail. I thought maybe you’d still be up…”

  I wait. No one picks up. “Okay, I guess not,” I say awkwardly, waiting for the earth to swallow me up. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that I missed you, and that I hope everything is okay with you, and that I’d love to see you again sometime. I mean, just as friends if you want…we don’t have to do anything. I just meant…”

  Beep.

  The fucking machine cut me off.

  And I can’t even unsend the stupid message.

  Final advice of the day:

  Never call a household between 10 pm and 8 am.

  Thirty-Two

  Feeling that my book of advice had recently become depressing, not to mention one-sided, I decided to ask everyone in Andy’s wedding party to give my future great-grandniece one golden nugget of advice.

  I don’t think anyone was taking me or the book very seriously.

  There’s no such thing as a romantic dinner that includes a booster seat and a high chair.

  “That’s what you’re writing?” I say to Jenn incredulously.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Jenn asks.

  “You can write anything you want to a future generation. Anything at all! And that’s what you choose?”

  “It’s no worse than what your Mawv wrote.”

  “Why?” I ask, grabbing my book of advice. “Mawv, what did you write?”

  Bridesmaid’s dresses are supposed to be hideous. Wear them anyway.

  I look up at her. She shrugs. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Well, I can’t say much, dressed as I am in my silver lame ruffled hideous bridemaid’s dress.

  We’re all in Andy’s room, the “bridal suite,” getting ready for the wedding, just us girls. My mom (who’s excused herself to the balcony at least three times to smoke pot), Mawv (who’s excused herself at least three times to go smoke cigarettes), Jenn (who’s excused herself to go to the bathroom to throw up), Grandma, and me, who’s dying to excuse myself for any reason, but I can’t think of a damn thing.

  A makeup artist is putting the finishing touches on Andy’s makeup in the other room, which is giving us ample time to dish on Andy’s fashion choices.

  “I think Charlie looks gorgeous,” Grandma says, which is the first compliment she’s paid me all weekend. Then she gives a pointed look to my mother. “Much better than that artsy-fartsy crap you put your bridesmaids in. But then again, your choices have always been weird.”

  Mom glares at Grandma, grabs my book of advice, then scribbles down the following:

  There comes a point in your life when you should choose who you’re comfortable with, and spend the holidays with them. Don’t see your family if they’re not nice to you.

  “Oh, please. What’s normal?” Mawv counters, lighting a new cigarette with the one she’s just finished. “I’ve been on this planet almost a hundred years, and I’ve never seen a decent-looking bridesmaid’s dress. And you know what really gets me is when you hear the bride say, ‘She can wear the dress after the wedding.’ Where is Charlie going to wear that? A Star Trek convention?”

  Later in my journal I will write the following advice:

  Save all of your bridesmaid’s dresses for your wedding. That way, they can be “worn again” by the brides who made you wear them to their weddings in the first place.

  “How do I look?” Andy a
sks, opening her bedroom door.

  I turn to see her in her white dress and veil, and she is truly breathtaking. Her dress sparkles, matching her sparkly, happy eyes. “You look perfect,” I say. And I mean it, she does. Her hair is up, her skin is glowing. I’ve never seen her look so happy. This really is her day.

  “You’re beautiful,” Mom says, clasping her hands together.

  “Stunning,” Jenn concurs.

  “How much did that dress set you back?” Grandma asks, pulling back Andy’s collar to check the tag.

  “Ninety-nine dollars,” Mom, Jenn, Andy, and I say in unison.

  “Good,” Grandma says, lightly patting Andy on her shoulder. “Because I have a surprise for you. Your grandfather and I would like to help you pay for your dress.”

  Grandma walks over to her purse and proudly pulls out a check. “This is from us,” she says, proudly handing Andy the check. “Fifty dollars. Use it to help pay for your dress.”

  Andy reads the check. “Oh, this is much too generous,” she says, like she’s just been given the Taj Mahal.

  My mother walks over to Andy, looks over her shoulder to read the check, then rolls her eyes.

  “Nonsense,” Grandma says. “Your grandfather and I are happy to do it. Besides”—Grandma gives me a pointed look—“it’s not like we’re going to be giving out any more wedding checks anytime soon.”

  Mawv whips her head over to me, then back to Grandma. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Which is exactly what I was thinking.

  Grandma narrows her eyes at Mawv. “Oh, Mother, let’s be honest…”

  “Mother,” my mom interrupts Grandma. “A wedding day is not the time to start being honest.”

  “Well, forgive me for calling a spade a spade! Back in my day, we had a word for women over thirty who weren’t married. And do you know what that word was?”