A Total Waste of Makeup (12 page)

This is a question I’m sure originated in the Midwest—where he’s from. It’s right up there with those golden oldies, “Cold enough for you?” and “The cold builds character.” “Dad, I’d only be wasting my whole day if my day were expected to end at nine in the morning with Regis and Kelly. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. What makes you think anything is wrong? How did your date go?”

I sit up in my bed, and look for my cigarettes. “It wasn’t a date. It was just a few guys Drew thought about setting me up with. One of them was Chris. You know, Mom’s Chris?”

“He’s not there, is he?” my dad asks, slightly panicked.

“No!” I practically yell back, as I pull a cigarette from the pack. “I’m pretty sure there’s some rule about that.”

“Thou shalt not covet thy mother’s irritatingly young and stupid boyfriend?”

“Something like that,” I say, finding my matches, and lighting up. “Be nice to Mom. He’s not
that
stupid.”

“He thought Napoleon was a dessert,” Dad says in disgust.

“Napoleon is a dessert, Dad.”

“Not when it’s marching on to Waterloo,” Dad points out. “Is someone else with you?”

I take a drag from my cigarette. “Okay, in the first place, that’s a rude question. In the second place, I’m not going to dignify that question with a response, and in the third place…you don’t want to know.”

“So, in other words, no.”

Damn. “No,” I am forced to admit.

“Has that guy David called?”

“No,” I say, upset with myself for ever mentioning David to my mom, knowing full well:

Anything you tell one parent goes to the other parent. Withhold information accordingly.

“Well, you’ll find someone,” Dad assures me. “In the meantime, I just called because I needed to vent.”

I rue the day my mother ever gave my father
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.
It’s disconcerting to have a middle-aged man use expressions like, “I need to vent” and “I am going into my cave emotionally right now. Don’t follow me.”

“Okay, Dad, what’s up?” I ask calmly, knowing from the book that I should force myself to listen, validate his emotional feelings, and not to try to fix the problem.

“Your sister invited that horrible Mr. Wharton.”

“Dad, she had to invite Grandpa. He’s Mom’s father.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Yes, he is. But you have to be nice to him.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, that’s why,” I say in the exact tone he used to give me when I was a little girl.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need a better reason,” Dad says, and I hear him turn on the early morning news. “And frankly, right now you’re hurting my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, not even vaguely sorry. “How about because you love your daughter, and because you’re not the parent who causes drama.”

“Sure. Take his side,” my father says.

“Will you take a hit of pot and calm the fuck down?!” I hear my mother chide from another room.

“I’m not smoking any more of that stuff. I don’t trust your dealer,” my father yells back.

I’m afraid to ask. And yet it’s like looking at a car accident, or a really bad date at the next table—you just can’t help but want to know a little more…. “Why?” I ask.

“Why what?” my father asks back.

“Why don’t you trust Mom’s dope dealer?”

“Oh. Well, I went and got one of those drug tests, you know the kind that companies use to test employees before they hire them, because I wanted to know how long the pot stayed in your system, you know in case I go scuba diving—”

“I didn’t know you had ever been scuba diving,” I interrupt.

“I haven’t. But I’m planning a midlife crisis, and I think scuba diving should be a part of it. You know, pristine beaches, cute little girls in their bikinis, poker….”

Before I can ask what poker has to do with scuba diving, he continues, “So I take this drug test. And what does it tell me but that I’ve tested positive for PCP!”

I gasp. You got to hand it to my Dad—it takes a lot to get me to gasp in this family.

“So,” he continues, “it turns out, your mother’s dealer had ‘accidentally’ laced her lid with PCP! Well, I told him a thing or two! Let me tell you, that seventy-eight-year-old woman from Venice, your mother’s old pot dealer, sure, she may have been a silly little grandmother who put stickers on her bags, and insisted you eat her brownies, which were dubious. And she may have bored you with picture after picture of her grandchildren, but you can be sure the marijuana you got from her was clean!”

“Well then, why don’t you just go back to her?” I ask, wondering how I ended up in this conversation.

“She died,” Dad says, like she did it just to inconvenience him. “I mean, what has the world come to when you can’t even trust your pot dealer?”

Mom picks up the other line, and asks accusingly, “Who are you on the phone with? You should never talk about drugs on a portable phone.”

Ah, the words of wisdom you get from your elders. It’s precious, really.

“The DEA,” my father says. “They’re coming to get you.”

“It’s me, Mom,” I say.

“Hello, dear,” Mom says. “Ed, don’t you have to get ready for work?” Mom asks my father.

I can actually hear him roll his eyes. “Fine. I love you, Charlie.”

“Me too, Dad. Good night.”

After he hangs up, my mom whispers, “Give me a minute to get to another room. We have to talk.”

Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy.

Thirty seconds later, I can hear the waterfall from the outdoor pool, so I know Mom is outside.

“I need to talk to you about your sister,” Mom whispers urgently. “You need to have a talk with her. I told her that even though your father and I are paying for this entire wedding, she is entitled to invite whomever she wants.”

Which, of course, in Mom language, really translates to “Run every name by me. I’m not paying two hundred dollars for a dinner for someone I can’t stand.”

“…only now she’s invited that bitch Julia!”

I sigh aloud. “Mom, she’s Dad’s sister.”

“Don’t defend her!” Mom practically shouts, then begins loudly whispering, “She wishes you were dead.”

I sigh heavily into the phone to subtly hint to my mother that I am tired of repeating the same tired point over and over again. “No. When Dad told her you were pregnant, and you guys weren’t married, she said she wished you’d have a miscarriage. Now, while that is a horrible thing to say, it is not the same thing as wishing I were dead now.”

“Do you secretly hate me?” my mother asks accusingly. “Is this some reverse Oedipal thing where you want to marry your father and kill your mother, and that’s why you never take my side?”

Why is it mothers always have to go to the Electra complex?

“Mom, in the first place, no offense to you, but if I met Dad thirty years ago, I would have thought he was gay. So, no, I do not secretly want to marry Dad. And in the second place, it’s been thirty years since Julia said—”

“You make that sound like a long time ago,” my mother says.

Instead of pointing out the obvious:

Don’t hold a grudge for thirty years. While you’re home stewing, the other guy’s out dancing.

I instead try to diffuse the situation by changing the subject. “Mom, what are you doing up this early?”

I ask this because my mother has never been out of bed before the crack of noon. Except when she’s working. And she’s a writer so, like I said, crack of noon.

“I haven’t been to bed yet,” my mother tells me, and I hear her inhaling from her pot pipe. “Chris and I had a long conversation last night. Apparently, your boss tried to set you up with him last night, and it got him quite freaked out. We’re thinking of taking our relationship to the next level.”

He didn’t seem freaked out at the party. But then again, he’s a yoga instructor, so maybe you can’t tell. However, speaking of freaked out, which I now am, I ask, “What next level?”

My mother sighs audibly. “Well…your father and I have decided to live together…”

My parents are divorced, but they’re living together. Swell.

Mom continues, “You know, because it looks like he and Jeannine are over, and you know, he’ll need some mothering right now, and I’m such an earth mother…”

“Right,” I say halfheartedly.

I finish my cigarette, get out of bed, walk to my dresser, and open my cake box, where about a third of the cake still sits. (I guess the top layer of my wedding cake wouldn’t make it to the second day, either.) I take a fingerful as my mother continues.

“So I tell Chris that your father will be living here, and he’s okay with it, but asks if he can move in, too. And I say, I just don’t know, two men under the same roof, and me with a cleaning lady only once a week, and he says…”

Blah, blah, blah, she talks…something about Mrs. Robinson…blah, blah, blah. I can’t concentrate. I am too busy loving this cake! The top layer is this buttery yellow cake, which I don’t normally like, but it is sinful, and has this nice chocolate chip filling with vanilla.

“So, what do you think?” Mom asks.

Shit! She does that to me every time! And now I’ve got to bs my way through the rest of this conversation.

Fortunately, she’s been my mother for a really long time, so I know how to do that. I smile to myself, so proud am I of my next line: “Well, Mom, in your heart you know the answer. I think it’s time you quit asking everyone else’s opinion, and just do what you know is right.”

She’s silent. I’ve really hit home with my logic. “Of course,” she says. “Of course you’re right.”

Yay! Home run! I should have been a therapist.

“Would you carry the baby?” she asks earnestly.

Huh? Wait, stay calm, think back on what she was talking about, something about Mrs. Robinson….

“You weren’t listening to a thing I said, were you?” Mom asks dryly.

I look down at my hardwood floors sheepishly. “I heard the part about two men and only one cleaning lady.”

My Dad yells, “Jacquie, go to bed!” and I am saved.

“I have to go,” Mom says. “Your father’s calling me to bed. God—never thought I’d be saying that again. I love you. We’ll talk later.”

She hangs up. I hang up and finish off my cake.

I pick up again to call Drew. It rings three times until I hear Drew yell, “I’m up!”

“Wakey, wakey,” I say.

“Five more minutes.”

“Okay, but only five. It’s already after six, and…” He’s already hung up. “And why am I talking to myself?” I say out loud for no reason.

I call Kate to make sure she’s okay; she lies and says she is. Then I take a quick shower, then I call Drew back.

“I’m up!”

“Your driver will be there in less than ten minutes. Did you kiss her?” I ask, lighting up another cigarette.

“Yeah, but it was one of those quick pecks on the lips. Very Hollywood,” he tells me.

“Better luck Saturday,” I say.

“I hope so,” he says. “Promise me you’ll get her good and liquored up.”

“Only if you promise me you’ll get Doug good and liquored up.”

“Deal,” he says, then hangs up.

Well, at least it’s Friday.

On the way to work, my phone rings, and I see from the caller ID it’s my sister Andy.

I pick up anyway, adjusting my headset so I now look like someone who talks to herself in the car.

“Hi, Andy,” I say, suppressing a yawn.

“I hate our family. They’re a bunch of nutcases,” Andy says, nearly in tears.

“What,
now
? You’re just figuring that out
now
?” I ask.

“I don’t know why we’re going to play Mendelsohn’s wedding march when I walk down the aisle. Why don’t I just have the theme to the
Addams Family
?”

That’s a good question, actually.

“Dad says he’s not coming to the rehearsal dinner if Grandpa comes,” Andy continues, “and Mom says if she sees Julia she’s going to punch her lights out. Can you talk to them?
Please?
”

“All right. I’ll talk to them. Go have a normal day, and try not to think about it,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.

We talk for another minute, and I hang up just as I get to the studio.

Today they are shooting the big finale. You know, where the guy gets the girl, and everything’s a happy ending. Which reminds me: I pull out my notebook and scratch down:

Make sure most of the movies you see have happy endings.

Yeah—I know. I’m such a commoner. I don’t care. Life can be depressing enough without paying ten bucks to see even more sadness. I mean, let’s be honest, how many times have you seen
Citizen Kane
? How many times have you seen
When Harry Met Sally
?

So, you see my point.

Do you still rent movies in the 22nd century? If so, rent
When Harry Met Sally, Auntie Mame,
and
His Girl Friday.
You can then rent
Fight Club
(which is an awesome movie, but depressing), but you must follow it up with a Cary Grant comedy such as
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dreamhouse
or
I Was a Male War Bride.
Enjoy!

About time I start giving the girl some practical advice.

I walk around the set, and think of the scene they’re shooting today. Drew plays a detective who has to bring a beautiful fugitive (played by his costar, the gorgeous Heather Crowe), across the country for her trial. It’s a screwball romantic comedy, with a really happy ending.

As the other members of the crew begin pulling cables, setting up cameras, and lighting the set, I walk over to the fake jail cell. For some reason, even though I got a nice kiss from Doug last night, I’m still thinking of Jordan. Not that he’d give me the time of day. But I imagine myself as the beautiful convict, handcuffed to Jordan, the tough but sweet detective, and he kisses me through the cell, and…

Mmmmm, I sigh to myself, dreaming of that kiss. See, this is why we go to movies. If you ever kissed someone handcuffed to you in real life, it would be kinky.