by Dee Detarsio
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Come on,” she continued, pushing her luck. “Look what happened when I wasn’t around. Martinator? Need I say more?”
“No, you need not, smart ass.”
As if Daria was working some voodoo or something, the toilet backed up and my computer died the very next day. Daria had also called my darling daughter Nicole and sold her on the idea and the glamour of being on a reality TV show. She and Ryan double-teamed me in a rare display of unity. They usually joined forces to wear me down on something, like how they were the only kids on the planet without an iPhone and if I cared anything about them and their social well-being I would ante up. Like I was depriving them of food, shelter or the ridiculousness that is known as Abercrombie and Fitch clothing. Or worse, Juicy Couture. I had offered to just stencil ‘diva’ on the back of Nicole’s sweat pants; she was not amused.
“It’ll be fun, Mom, and you know it. You’re really good at decorating and stuff and you are a good talker. You’ll be great,” wheedled my daughter, proving she had charm when she wanted to.
“Yeah,” chimed in my young man of few words. “It’ll be cool.”
“What?” I asked them. “Are you guys thinking you’ll be discovered and become someone famous? Or that you’ll meet movie stars?”
The expressions on their faces told me that thought or two had crossed their minds.
“You guys. It won’t be like that. We’ll have cameras in our faces all the time. They’ll be here when we fight, when we have a messy house,” I trailed off and looked at Nicole. “When you don’t have your make-up on…”
She shook her head, sending her long hair tumbling over her shoulders as if she weren’t a narcissistic hedonist from way back.
“We don’t care, do we Nicole?” Ryan said.
“No. Mom, we really think you need this. Take a chance. Don’t be such a…” I could see her grope for the worst thing she could come up with. She found it. “Don’t be like Grandma.”
Oh, if there’s one thing that makes me grit my teeth so hard I could practically shoot sparks between my fillings, it was being told I was like my mother. My kids had witnessed my husband use that ploy many a time to get his way, knowing I’d do just about anything to avoid that label.
Maybe Daria and my kids had a point. I was in a rut. It was a big ol’ single, suburban, going-nowhere-fast boring blur of a rut. I Googled myself and all that came up was a hit for me as a basketball scorekeeper for Ryan’s 7th grade team. Good times. All I remember about that is some eager-beaver seven-foot tall dad who used to stand so close to me at the scorekeeper table jingling keys in his pocket that I thought he was going to pop his penis in my ear.
Is that all there is? That’s my legacy? Maybe I needed to take a risk. What did I have to lose? My pride? Been there. My privacy? Done that.
“Please, please.” My kids wheedled like they wanted more text messaging minutes or something. But I stood firm and relied on my best parenting skills.
“Will you clean your rooms?” I crossed my arms across my chest to show them I meant business. Nicole hugged and kissed me, just like she used to, and Ryan leaned down and head butted me in the general direction of my heart, his version of a hug. I can’t believe I actually agreed, but the truth is, my kitchen, and my bathroom, and my bedroom, and well, even the family room could all use a make-over.
As I waited for Daria, I walked around the downstairs, trying to figure out what I would change, if I could. Our house was in Pleasantville; a deep, dark suburban neighborhood in the North County of San Diego in an area called Rancho Penasquitos. It was an old Indian name that meant “little cliffs” but friends of ours always insisted on calling it Rancho Skinny Penis. My husband, trying to attach himself to a more important coastal address, always tried to tell people we lived in east-east Del Mar. That’s like people who live in Pacific Beach trying to say they live in La Jolla. Or people who live in Los Angeles and say they live in Beverly Hills but don’t really own the 90210 zip code. Geosnobbery was alive and well in our great state. Our house was only about eleven years old, but, unless you lived in southern California, you may not know that is way past its sell-by date, and prime time for cosmetic enhancement.
Its tannish stucco had become stained and faded under the red clay roof tiles. Inside, the carpet was, let’s just say ‘lived in’. Brett and I had always talked about replacing it once the kids were grown and gone and finished spilling Slurpees on it. The kitchen looked drab and dingy, like the whole damn thing could have used Crest white strips. I myself was kind of looking forward to a fresh start; like in that allergy commercial where once you took a pill the whole world looked bright and shiny again.
My funds could use a make-over too, since the divorce had put the kibosh to any free-wheeling spending and I was back to square one, hoping the water heater didn’t blow because that would really hurt. I used to be a news producer a million years ago, which was where Brett and I met in the first place. Once the kids came along I was lucky enough to be a stay-at-home mom. It was hard re-entering the work place now, especially since I wanted to be home in the afternoon for the kids. Don’t say it, I know, they’re old enough, but they’re going to be gone all too soon and I wanted to be there for them. Besides, even if I wanted to return to the news desk, which I didn’t, the world of local news had changed so much I’m sure I would be as welcome as a wounded dinosaur. Which is what I would feel like around all the smart, young ivy-leaguers running the joint. While they would provide news coverage of the dying dinosaur—if it bleeds, it leads—they certainly wouldn’t want to hang out and work with it every day.
Until I could figure out something else, I held a part time job a couple of mornings a week at Daria’s friend’s chi chi boutique, Beaches. We called it Bee-tches, because that’s who shopped there. For an idea of how out of my element I was working there, consider that the last time I was shopping at Bloomingdales, not one single salesperson asked if I needed help, until I was looking at crockpots. Just what does that say about my frumpy mom persona?
Oh, well, while I totally sucked at my snooty sales job, it did cover our food budget. My alimony covered the house payment and we had split retirement down the middle. Seeing how there wasn’t a snowball’s chance either of my little Einsteins were headed towards a scholarship, how to finance college tuition remained up in the air. Maybe a nice new kitchen would cheer me up.
Bottom line-I agreed to be exploited for free stuff for my house. Nay, I was looking forward to it. Besides, Beaches even agreed to give me the time off.
I could see it now; my house would be a showplace. I could picture the warm, inviting, modern, clean and organized contemporary ivory kitchen. My friends would gather in my kitchen around the tasteful brown-mottled granite covered landing strip of an island, drinking and laughing together, amazed at how delicious everything was. It was my fantasy and if I was going to have a killer kitchen I was also going to magically morph into a good cook. One who could have several hot appetizers and entrees each ready at the appropriate time and temperature. I squinted my eyes in my imagination. Wow, I even look ten years younger and ten pounds thinner. Hey, it was my fantasy.
“You know, this could be a lot of fun,” I told Daria, as we headed into the production meeting to finalize details. Daria knew all the players and did the introductions. The Executive Producer, Doug Duffy, dang, they’re just getting younger all the time, his associate producer, MaryBeth Katz, and, I willed myself not to wince, the behind-the-scenes therapist, Dr. Tang. Dr. Fang, as everyone referred to him, may have been brilliant but as Daria said, obviously not brilliant enough to do something about those teeth. He’s not pretty enough for TV Daria warned me beforehand, so they’ll just have the host spout off some drivel that Dr. Tang tells him to. They didn’t want this to be a head-shrink show anyway, she told me, they want it to be a reality drama about someone’s crappy life and crappy house being fixed up together.
“No offense,” she had adde
d, looking at me sideways.
“Shut up,” I whispered.
“We envision knocking through walls in your home and knocking down walls in your psyche,” Dr. Fang was spitting. Daria put her hand on my leg, as if in support but I knew it was to stop me from laughing out loud. I didn’t need a therapist. I knew why I was messed up. Nothing a few pills, more academically inclined kids, bigger alimony checks, and shoot, I might as well throw in a hot boyfriend, couldn’t fix.
Doug Duffy outlined the details of the shoot. “We’re not talking any extreme house renovation on steroids,” he said. “We’re going to shoot highlights over the next seven weeks of you and four other participants across the country. We’ll start with you and your,” he cleared his throat, “issues, and have you work with your interior designer to make changes in your house and your life. By the end of filming, you will have a remodel to be proud of, something for our do-it-yourself viewers, as well as, hopefully,” here he frowned at me like I better deliver something profound, “a new, improved, happier you to drive the storyline. We want to get to know you, the real you. And find out what makes you tick, what makes you cry, what makes you laugh.”
I felt like laughing at his agitated hands that were swirling up a vortex and making me dizzy. People thought I was neurotic! Maybe he needed some couch time with the good doctor. His associate producer, MaryBeth, leaned over and whispered in his ear. He gnawed on his fingernail, deep in thought. Staring at me. Daria and I glanced at each other as we heard him tongue spit his bitten nail then use it to pick his teeth. He finally flung it, fortunately toward Dr. Fang, then pounded his desk, causing me to jump.
“Lisby. Do you have it in you to change? Do you have the commitment to become a better person? Do you want to be happy?”
I was nodding like there was no tomorrow. The basic rules of human communication dictated my response. I couldn’t just sit there. The way he was going on I would have nodded back just as heartily to questions about the importance of hedge funds or the civil rights of smokers. I had to agree. I wanted to convince him.
“What’s going to make this show different than any other home improvement show is that we are going to share the personal drama of your story. Our viewers will love you or hate you, but they will get to know you and feel emotion. We need to give them a reason to care about you and want to see what will happen next. Capisce?”
Capisce? Doug Duffy is Italian? What was I getting myself into? I truly had no hopes for a better life. I just wanted a new kitchen.
“What Doug is trying to say, Lisby,” MaryBeth added, “is that we, our editors and story producers, will be looking for magic moments. We’ll have some scripted items for you…”
“But I’m not an actress,” I said.
“We know, don’t worry. You’ll be fine,” she said. “Our camera will follow you around as you work on projects, to see what you are learning and how you are doing in the hands-on construction process. At several points we’ll do interviews with you to see how it’s going. How you feel the house is progressing and what’s happening with you personally. Of course, we’ll have video of what’s going on with you and see what changes are happening with you. Then we will have what we call ‘bits’ where we set you up and produce you.” She nodded like that was that.
“We’re going to remake DIY, do-it-yourself TV into something bigger and better,” Doug added. “We’re going for a whole new genre. TID. Therapeutic Interior Design. Something like ‘environ-mental’ health. Get it?” Doug asked me. “We’re not only going to renovate houses, we’re going to renovate lives.”
“Therapy and Carpentry going hand in hand, eh?” Dr. Tang swallowed his lower lip at me. “The producers are embarking upon a social experiment,” he explained. “There will be change; some change in you and your life, no matter what happens, just by the essence of the physical changes happening in your environment. The fact that you will have a hand in making those changes only serves to underscore the disruption of patterns in your brainwaves. Clinical research proves that actual measurable accomplishments promote mental attitudes of success,” Dr. Tang said.
I didn’t dare look at Daria because he didn’t talk so much as growl.
“Mastering a skill helps us master our emotions,” he continued. “Gaining control in a physical area can teach us about positive control of other elements in our lives. And, as my grandmother used to say, boredom is the enemy of happiness.”
I nodded. “When I was little I never told my mother I was bored because she’d always find something for me to do,” I said. “Usually involving Comet cleanser.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Tang said. “Nobody can be bored when creating something. You will be part of creating your new environment. The brain is not wired to be happy and sad at the same time, so we’re pretty confident of positive results. Like Doug says, it’s all about therapeutic interior design.”
“TID TV,” Doug repeated, a far off look in his eye. Like he was imagining his Emmy award acceptance speech. Or becoming the Ed Sullivan of home improvement shows. He waved his hand. “Just relax, we’ll tell you what to say.”
I looked at Daria. “Huh?”
“Honey. Just sign the paper. They’ll own you for the next seven weeks.”
I looked at them. “So there really is nothing real about reality TV?” Doug, MaryBeth and even Dr. Fang just looked at me like I farted or something. Then they burst out laughing.
I picked up the pen and signed my name.
Chapter 5
Real or No Real
The big day finally arrived. I had my house spotless and sparkling, even though they told me not to. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt since I was expected to get my hands dirty and help with the renovation, all part of my therapy. Before the doorbell even quit echoing I had opened the door to meet my mystery fate, Elgin.
“Good God,” he said, ignoring my outstretched hand and smile as he gave me the once over. “What are you wearing? Nice mom jeans.” He whipped his head around to the photographer holding a giant camera with a lens that looked like something out of War of the Worlds. “Did you get that?”
“Is this not good?” I asked, feeling very self-conscious in front of the camera. I mean I didn’t even like to look in my 5x magnifying mirror. I could only imagine what that supersonic telescopic crystal ball was seeing.
“They’re my painting jeans,” I said, wiping the palms of my hands down the sides of my legs. I had wanted to look like I was ready for hands-on work. Apparently I didn’t get the memo to dress up like a real housewife; my tiara was at the cleaners. I felt like I was in the third grade again wearing a hand-me down winter coat that looked like it was made of royal blue SOS pads. There was a crew of what looked like ten more people behind Elgin and the photographer, and a sound man, holding a huge furry boom mic that bobbled dangerously near my head. An assorted cast of men and women were armed with everything from iPhones and walkie-talkies, to technical gear, cases and cables.
Elgin spun back around to me and looked down. He groaned dramatically. “Tell me those aren’t fuggs.” He turned once again to face the camera. “Real, or no real?” He asked flinging up his hands.
My toasty warm feet which had been feeling oh-so-southern California comfy, curled their toes in embarrassment. “Fake Uggs?” Elgin continued. “Oh, honey. Let’s get started. First things first.”
Elgin brushed past me and didn’t even look at my living room or kitchen as he hurried up the stairs finding his way to my bedroom, obviously expecting me to follow. So I did. He was rooting through my closet and I could hear my front door open and close as the production crew began to set up shop, sounding like the time Ryan and his friends thought it would be fun to rollerblade through the house. My kids would so not be happy. Even though they were the ones who talked me into to this, I would be the one they would blame for this violent intrusion into our lives. Thank God they were at school right now.
“Trish!” Elgin was squawking into his headset. “Make-u
p, stat. On the double.” The photographer was dangerously close, really invading my personal space, as Elgin was rifling my closet. “Nice threads you got in here,” he said. I presumed he was being sarcastic, especially when he followed it up with, “Yes, Costco Couture for the oh-so-mature.” That hurt.
Elgin tossed out my best True Religion jeans that I had to fast for a week to get into followed by a red silky t-shirt. That cost $85. That he wanted me to wear to paint or rip cupboards out.
“What are you doing in my closet? I thought you were the interior designer?”
“Oh, but I am. I’m also an exterior designer.” He stuck his head out and looked me up and down. “You’re going to be gorgeous, too.”
I sighed.
“Hey, I’m Trish. I’ll help with your make-up,” said a voice at my elbow. I looked over to see a gorgeous young blonde woman with a complexion you couldn’t pay for, because believe me, I had tried.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s all pretty overwhelming at first. Pretty soon you’ll just be hating our guts.”
“Oh. What have I gotten myself into?” I tried to laugh.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “I think you’ll have fun. Just don’t take it too seriously.”
Just then, Elgin came out of my closet carrying a pair of my black stilettos that I only ever wore to weddings because they made my feet feel like the Little Mermaid dancing on knives wishing for her tail back, and a pair of black ballet flats.
“Heel, or no heel?” he asked us.
I looked back at Trish, my eyebrows asking my question. She laughed. “Knock it off, Elgin.” She pushed me down on the bench at the end of my bed. “Elgin got beat out as the host of some crazy game show and can’t get over it. He’s trying to come up with his own catch phrase.”
