by Ginny Aiken
Davina’s shoulders shake with silent chuckles. I glance at Miss Mona, who’s got the laugh she’s fighting plastered all over her face, and finally at Erin. Then I get it.
They’d planned this. I’m going to have to give Miss Mona more credit. Aunt Weeby’s no enigma. What you see is what you get—goofy, feisty, lovable, and recovering from a badly broken leg. So it wouldn’t have taken much to figure how she’d react when faced with the wheelchair. But I’m still glad they planned it; Aunt Weeby’s not ready to walk, no matter how much mileage she wants to put on her cast.
Davina, deadpan, bends to slip Aunt Weeby into the car, her movements gentle, as tender as those of a mother for her child. When she stands back upright, I come close and touch her arm. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Miss Andie. Miz Weeby’s a favorite of mine.”
“You can drop the Miss with me. I’m just Andie. And my aunt’s something, all right. Just don’t ask me what.”
The disco-style, color-changing lights in the limo keep Aunt Weeby fascinated, as does the small fridge filled with juices and sodas. Once home, she doesn’t fight Davina, and we get her settled on the parlor sofa.
After everyone leaves and it’s just the two of us, though, a tug-of-wills war eats up the rest of our day. Aunt Weeby being Aunt Weeby, wants to do everything she’s always done the way she’s always done it, never mind the broken leg in its Pepto-pink cast.
By the time I settle her into bed—you don’t want to know about that hike up those stairs, since she refused to sleep on the queen-size, double-decker AeroBed I inflated in the study—I’m exhausted. Drag-down, knock-out beat. My every muscle screams when I go back to the kitchen to make myself a cup of cocoa. But in spite of my exhaustion, something about this house makes me crave the comforts of childhood. Aunt Weeby’s always been a firm believer in the power of prayer and chocolate therapy, not necessarily together or in equal measure.
When the phone rings, I groan and ignore it for two shrill shrieks, but then my call deprivation gets the better of me. I answer with little enthusiasm.
“Andie?”
The woman’s voice is familiar, but not so much that I recognize it. “Yes?”
“It’s Peggy. Peggy Sanders. Remember?”
Oh. My. Goodness. “Of course, I remember. We spent too many summers planning and plotting how to ditch our chores and go swimming not to. How are you?”
Her relief comes across loud and clear. “I’m fine, but I’m not Peggy Sanders anymore. At least, not technically. I married Josh Ross, from youth group. Do you remember him?”
“Wow. I do remember him. That’s great. What are you two up to these days?”
She laughs. “I’m not so sure you really want to know, but since you asked, I’m up to my eyeballs in dirty diapers, dirty dishes, and dirty kitty litter.”
“Girlfriend, are you sure the ammonia fumes from the diapers and kitty litter haven’t pickled your brain?”
“Oh, I’m sure they have. But enough about me and my pickled brain. How are you? Last I heard, you were jetting all over the world buying up the crown jewels of third world countries.”
“Not exactly. I did score a ton of frequent-flyer miles buying exotic gemstones for my boss, but I never got close enough to sneeze at any crown jewels. I usually hung around boring business offices and the occasional muddy mine entrance.” “That’s way more interesting than dealing with multi-species poop.”
As we both laugh, I realize how much I lost when I gave my all to the pursuit of my supposedly awesome career. Memories of lonely nights in New York return with a vengeance. Ouch!
How could I have left such a fun friendship in the dust I kicked up in my mad scramble up the success ladder? And even now, after I return home, it’s Peggy who calls, not me. Color me mortified.
“Hey, Peg,” I say, suddenly serious. “I owe you a huge apology.”
“What do you mean? I haven’t seen you in ages. How could you owe me anything?”
“That’s just it. I lost track of what really matters. I never stayed in touch with you or anyone besides Aunt Weeby and my parents. And let me tell you, the Big Apple may be great for retail therapy and Broadway, but there are just so many Coach bags and show tickets a girl can consume.
Besides, when you’re alone, your best bet is a cat. And then mine died.”
“And you think my brain’s pickled? That’s awful, Andie. Didn’t you find a church home? And how about your neighbors? What was wrong with them?”
“Church was Sunday. The rest of the week was work, work, work. And you don’t know New York. It’s like a beehive— well, the apartment buildings are. You know, every worker bee buzzes home to the correct cubbyhole, slams the door, and hunkers down. It’s so not Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” “Better you than me,” Peggy says. “I couldn’t have done it. But you must have liked it some. Otherwise you’d have come home sooner. Right?”
Would I? Not then, I wouldn’t have. “It took me a good long while to figure out I’m not like that either, but I’m here now. I did love the gemological side of my New York life, though. That’s about all I did love. And it wasn’t enough.”
From there the conversation leaps all over the place. Finally, we agree to have lunch on Saturday, when Josh has his guy time with their two little boys. We hang up, and I smile.
What an awesome feeling to know I still have a friend, a good one. Thank you, Lord, for looking out for me when I didn’t have the sense to do so. I even have a home—the real deal, not my glorified closet in a très chic building in Tribeca.
Halfway up the stairs, I turn to check out the parlor and foyer one more time. They haven’t changed; they haven’t had to. The classic furniture radiates that aura of quality—good simple lines and rich, warm taupe upholstery. The Asian rug, with its traditional gold, black, and cream pattern, couldn’t be more ideal. The cherry side and dining room tables were Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s grandmother’s once upon a time, so they’re probably worth a bundle, and the drapes are ivory silk, luxury again. The soft scent of fresh flowers on the foyer console reminds me of all the other times I’ve walked into this house. Aunt Weeby will go without coffee, biscuits, or country ham before she’ll forego her flowers. And they’re fresh. Only fresh works for her.
I’m so not a New Yorker. Except for the shopping: Macy’s, Saks, Bloomies, the designers’ boutiques . . .
As I go upstairs, I glide my finger over the silky-smooth banister. Memories of family vacations, holidays, lazy summer afternoons, and above all else, love, blossom in me like a field of daisies under the summer sun. At the landing, I hug myself, and turn a slow, happy circle.
Then I grin. Forget about that approaching three-oh hill. No one’s around. No one’s gonna bust me. So I hike up a leg, and . . .
“Yeah, baby!” The banister’s as slick as ever, the exhilaration the same. Thank you, Jesus, for Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, and the faboo banister too.
That was then, three days ago. This is now. I’ve crash-landed into The Twilight Zone.
Time? It means nothing. Days zip past me in a hazy blur. I now have a good—bad, actually—idea of what sleepwalking feels like. And I never wanted to know in the first place. Now I’m in this new dimension—well, my body is—and I hear and say all the right things, but my mush-for-brain can’t quite get around it all. Day after day of meetings with gemstone vendors and jewelry suppliers go well. I know most of them from my years in New York, and I do know my gemstones. But then there’s the other. You see, I’m suddenly the victim on a manic version of What Not to Wear. It’s not one of my fave shows anymore, not after what I’m going through. What’s worse, my survival isn’t assured in this Groundhog Day cycle of planning meetings, rehearsals, and millions of fittings for the clothes Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby want me to wear on-screen.
But surprise, surprise! By the time two weeks of this madness have gone by, they have disagreed over every shirt, skirt, dress, and pants each has suggested.
And I wo
uldn’t be caught dead in anything they choose. Starting with the inverted lampshade Aunt Weeby calls “darling.” When she pulls it out of the dress bag, I go into shock. My reaction hovers between laughing, crying, and running back to New York and a fresh new ulcer. It’s the exact shade of her cast and that diarrhea medicine.
What was she thinking?
“If you like it so much,” I tell her, “buy yourself a lamp base and stick it on top. It’s not going on me.”
“But it’s the perfect dress for your launch show, sugarplum. See how the lights make it glow? And retro’s back in style.” I look again at the shiny pink satin, extreme Audrey Hep-burn shirtwaist with the bouffant skirt. There’s enough reflective fabric here to turn me into the world’s tallest, crinkliest, pinkest lamp. Let me backtrack. Ms. Hepburn wouldn’t have been caught dead in this thing. “Not this kind of retro.”
“But pink’s wonderful for a woman’s complexion.”
This shade of pink doesn’t work for anyone—except maybe Miss Piggy. And I’m not that short.
By three o’clock, I dig in my heels. Enough is enough. “I’m not wearing pink! Would you buy diamonds from a Charlie-Brown’s-little-girl-with-red-hair lampshade? News flash! I’m not in third grade anymore. And pink’s toxic for redheads. No way.”
Aunt Weeby’s no pushover. “But it’s such a happy color, sugarplum.”
Miss Mona clears her throat. “I told you she should stick to cool colors like the greens, blues, and purples rather than your pink.”
Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “Everyone wears blue, green, and purple. We want her to stand out.”
“Oh, she’ll stand out in pink all right. I’m just not sure I want a Pepto bottle look-alike to try and sell my gems.”
After a couple more go-rounds of this, I’m ready to offer them—and their pink monstrosity—to the first pasty troll I find. With two index fingers in the corners of my mouth, I whistle. Life comes to a standstill in our little corner of suburban Louisville.
A girl could get used to this kind of power.
“Here’s a novel idea, ladies. I choose what I’m going to wear. And how about I stick to neutrals so viewers can focus on the gems and jewels?”
Amazing how brilliant my two geriatric fashionistas suddenly find me—about the neutrals, that is. They still don’t trust me with my on-screen wardrobe, and nix my solo shopping spree.
Know what I find out? Louisville’s got some primo shopping going on.
The next day, I do like a homing pigeon and hit Ann Taylor for a fab black floral jacquard jacket and pencil skirt, a caramel knit wrap sweater, and black wool pants. One day later, at Macy’s I pick up a yummy BCBG dark green wool jersey dress with a cummerbund of the same fabric, a V-neck, and buttons all the way down the front.
Finally, after a twenty-four-hour hiatus from our extreme shopping safari, we hit the mother lode. Miss Mona drags me into a small, exclusive boutique—think Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, Monique L’Huilhier, and a bunch of English and Italian design stars too. Suzi, the owner, finds me a Diane Von Furstenberg silk wrap dress, then leads me straight to the racks of killer shoes.
But by the time I get there, exhaustion zaps me. Try to do all I’ve done the past few weeks, then add helping Aunt Weeby clump around with that massive cast. It feels as though it weighs as much as she does. And she’s not above playing on my sympathies to get her way when I dare suggest an extended break.
“Oh no, sugarplum,” she says. “We’re not done. Everything has to be near perfect. It’s all because I love you.”
I can almost hear the violin strings in the background, but what can I say? It is Aunt Weeby we’re talking about here. You know I’d do just about anything for her, even cut off my nose . . . you finish the cliché.
Let’s face it, anyone can tell I’m not myself when I balk at shoe shopping. I’m so all about shoes. But get real. Who’s going to see my shoes behind the host’s desk? I could do my shows in—shudder—Birkenstocks, and no one would know the difference.
And while I’m at the point where I’d rather wrap myself in my five-hundred-thread-count linens than shop, and the geriatric fashionistas give me no vote on the colors or styles,
I do fall in love with the shoes they choose for me. I score a pair of dark green velvet Stella McCartneys, some Manolo Blahnik beige patent leather Mary Janes, and a pair of Stuart Weitzman Kiss black kid leather pumps.
The best part of the shopping frenzy? Miss Mona insists on charging it to the network’s American Express card. I usually hit either Marshall’s or Filene’s Basement for my designer fix, so the number of zeros on the bills leave me gasping.
Then, bright and early the next morning, they drag me back to the studio. Just shoot me.
Miss Mona’s camera people subject me to multiple screen tests, makeup makeovers, and manicures. If the extreme shopping hadn’t worn me out, I might’ve enjoyed the beautifying spree—I do have my well-developed girly-girl side.
On the other hand, I do get to plan my shows, to choose gemstones, jewelry pieces, and diamond semi-mounts for shoppers to mix-and-match according to their individual taste. I even get to choose my backdrops, which is too cool.
It’s all about the gems, right?
Hah! Not by Aunt Weeby’s reckoning.
“There’s millions a’ single men out there, sugarplum,” she says on the way home after the remake Andie dog-and-pony show. “You have to look good. You never know when you’ll catch one’s eye.”
I did tell you she’s nuts. “On a women’s shopping channel?”
“Their mothers shop, don’t they?”
Oh goody. “If these men are still at home watching Mommy’s shows, then, trust me, I don’t want ’em.”
“So, there you have it, sugarplum! You’re plumb too picky for your own good.”
“Discriminating. I’m sure if God wants me to marry, he has a great guy out there for me.” I hope.
“Ah . . . so you’re waiting for the perfect hottie.”
“Yuck! I hate that word. It’s tacky. And I’m so not looking, or waiting, for a guy, any guy.”
No matter what I tell her, she can’t believe I’m not the rosy-glowed romantic she is. Maybe I am, but would rather wait for my Prince Charming than stalk him down. But don’t you dare tell her.
Then again, I’m not the driven executive Miss Mona has become, either. Who’d a thunk? Once upon a time these two were just small-town matrons with a weird thing for flea markets. Now one’s the female Ted Turner of cable commerce, and the other one? I’m not sure what Aunt Weeby’s really up to these days.
At least I get to work with nice people. There’s Allison, my makeup artist. She knows her business, and can erase under-eye circles and create cheekbones where the Lord forgot to put any. But when it comes to me, the dangerous duo fights to hijack her color choice every time—toward the pink spectrum, you understand.
Then there’s Julie Tuttle, Miss Mona’s retired military rent-a-cop for the vault. She’s the proud mama of twin girls. Every time I go check out the product, she talks endlessly about those sweeties and their daddy, her eyes full of stars. I’m jealous. And the owner of a ticking biological clock. Forgive me, Father.
The other hosts—Tanya, Marcie, Wendy, Karen, Danni, and Rosemarie—are okay, but usually too busy to pay much attention to me. Well, all of them except Danni Sutherland.
The dainty blonde has an Alaska-sized chip on her petite shoulder. The moment Miss Mona heard I was coming home, she yanked Danni from the weekly jewelry and gemstone show and stuck her with a couple more underwear—er . . . lingerie shows.
Eeuww! Can’t say I blame her. Tell me, would you like to look into a camera and tell the whole, wide world how much you loooove your underwear and why?
Nuh-uh. Not me.
Which makes me wonder. What kind of woman buys bras and panties off a TV screen while the whole world watches? Beats me, but there must be gaggles of them out there, since the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network sells truckloa
ds of the frilly, stretchy, cottony, slimming, or colorful things.
Something tells me I’m soon going to know those TV shoppers pretty darn well. My on-screen debut isn’t too far off.
Heaven help me.
5 00
It’s D-day. Debut day.
So here I finish hair and makeup, my palms sweat, and I can’t force down more than two sips of java, no matter how delish the fumes. It’s not Starbucks, but when a woman’s desperate, she copes.
But today there’s just no coping going on, capisce?
As I walk from the green room—Hey! I know what that is now. It’s the room where stars and lesser beings like me wait for our cue.
Where was I? Oh yeah. As I walk from the green room to the set, the list of product I’m scheduled to offer in hand, I try to tame the buzzards crash-landing in my gut. But they’re so into their own thing that they pay me no attention. And a woman who talks to imaginary, carrion-eating raptors is certifiable, which I must be, since I agreed to this TV host gig in the first place.
What was I thinking?
“There you are!” Miss Mona says in a loud whisper.
I hurry toward her, but shoot a glance at the set. Danni is still on, a pair of puce silk panties in her hand. “Is something wrong? Did I miss something? And why are you here? I thought you were interviewing someone for a camerawoman position.”
“She called to tell me her flight from New York was delayed, so I came instead of sending Carla after you. I didn’t want you to be late for your launch show.”
The deep breath I take is none too steady, but I’m not about to ’fess up to my nerves. Somehow, this whole TV gemologist thing has grown on me in the last few weeks, and I’m as excited as I am nervous. I figure I’m either as loony as Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby, or else their brand of madness spreads like athlete’s foot in high school locker rooms.
