by Dee Detarsio
Chapter 7
Freak Show
Never ask ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’ It’s like an engraved invitation to the universal jesters: Save the date! You are cordially expected to try to outdo yourselves. The first week was pretty brutal. Everything just moved so fast. I guess that’s because they are trying to shoot seven, hour-long episodes in seven weeks. It seems to me they have more than enough footage already. They shoot everything that moves, I guess in the hopes that something exciting will happen.
My kitchen was gone. I was brewing coffee in my bathroom and that just didn’t seem right, or taste right, for that matter. The bitter brown aroma mingled with my Neutrogena sesame oil and my hairspray, stirred with a waft of toothpaste. I feared I’d gone off coffee. Maybe that’s why I was so cranky. While I’ve never been a person who likes to be alone, what I wouldn’t have given for an hour of peace and quiet. I’d get mic-ed up in the morning with the premise that anything I said can and will be used against me.
The crew usually left by 6pm or so, unless there was something juicy going on. So they left by 6pm. And after the first time Sam the cameraman went for an up the nose shot on my daughter as she was fighting with her boyfriend on her cell phone, and she threw a hissy fit, “Mom, make him stop!” and then went crying out of the room. Not only did I have to console her, I had try to think of what I would say if that scene ever made it on TV, which it would, unless something better, as in worse, happened. Nicole’s been coming home later and later to try to avoid the cameras and once she arrived, she’d just go to her bedroom, which was off limits to the cast and crew.
This afternoon she text messaged me on her cell phone. ‘Mom?’
‘What?’ I texted back.
‘I hate this. When are they going to be done?’
‘I know it’s hard. But, we agreed. We’ll just have to make the best of it.’ OK, so maybe that text took me eight full minutes to master when I could have run upstairs and had a face to face in twelve seconds. But let’s face it, text messaging is genius. I had some of my best fights with my ex via text. I just had a problem with the last word. I never can say goodbye, no no no no I... I was always an “OK, you too, love you,” kind of signer-off-er, which totally drove my kids crazy.
“You don’t always have to answer back to all of my messages, Mom,” Nicole would sneer at my ancient manners.
My cell phone beeped. ‘I’m going over to Victoria’s,’ Nicole texted.
‘I thought you were going to have dinner and watch TV with me?’
‘I’m going.’
As hard as it was, I didn’t respond. Whatever, I thought, wishing for the days when she was like a puppy who would wiggle her tail at the sight of me. I stuffed my cell phone in my back pocket and went back into the kitchen to help chop up more floor tiles. Not my favorite job. Probably not my most attractive presentation, either. I kept stopping to pull up my jeans.
My phone beeped again. ‘I’m going,’ she repeated her text.
Finally, I wiped my hands off and texted back, ‘Wutever’. I knelt back down and continued chiseling away.
‘Thanks, luvs ya.’
Again, I didn’t respond. She duplicated, ‘Thanks, luvs ya.’
‘U 2’ I texted back.
Another beep. Another message. ‘Say it,’ her text commanded me. I smiled. My girl. ‘I love you, worship you and adore you!’ I wrote back. Shortly she came running down the stairs, “byeIloveyou,” and was gone.
So, while it’s stressful having your house remodeled, who was I to complain? I fell into bed at night, too tired to worry about my rut. I’d pull up my covers and send up a prayer of gratitude, and looked forward to a new kitchen. I liked getting my hands dirty and I really liked the crew, especially Carpenter Bob. He was the Yoda of the set. In fact, Elgin would always make fun of him. He’d pinch off his vocal cords, fold his hands and pretend to imitate Carpenter Bob. “Hammer you must nail, Lisby.”
This, after Carpenter Bob told me to quit being such a girl and start proving myself as I tried to hammer at the framed two-by-fours shaping my birth-control-case kitchen island the other day. He obviously came from the school of thought that there was no problem that couldn’t be solved with a little elbow grease. I whaled away at those timbers for probably 20 minutes until I could feel sweat dribbles down my bra. It was fun, whacking away like that, in a primitive, visceral sinus-clearing mood-altering rearranging-the-molecules kind of way. I guess I liked the physical stuff where you could really see you were making a difference. Even smashing tiles made me feel pretty good.
While my kitchen was totally unrecognizable, it seemed I was still the same plain Jane. Not making for good TV. I heard Daria show up with her usual fanfare. She was in the family room talking to Elgin. My knees were aching and my wrists were shaking so I decided to take a break. I stood up and started to head into the next room, rubbing the small of my back. I could see Daria and Elgin in cahoots and wondered what they were up to.
“I’m just say-ing,” Elgin was saying. “Her shoulder blades are bigger than her tits.”
My good and lovely friend Daria pushed him hard, in his chest. “And I’m just saying, Elroy, your tits are bigger than her shoulder blades.”
He laughed it off. “Daria, Daria. Look at your magnificent opulence. You wield those babies like they’re a powerful GPS system and know exactly where they’re heading. And the world is your oyster…you are a foodie, right?” He laughed. “I think the story line would really improve if she had implants.”
I took a few steps. I stopped and looked down. This time I felt like I was in the sixth grade, music class, where I lugged around the nickname E-flat for half the school year until Roddy Birch wet his pants, thank goodness. It only took me a few decades and nursing two kids to finally be OK with my body-I couldn’t let this slide. For sixth grade girls and the under-endowed everywhere, I had to take a stand. I saw red with shooting black dots before my eyes. I took a deep breath.
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled at Elgin, causing him to spin around. “Who do you think you are?” I was so mad I forgot to ruffle my mic to mute my theatrics. Great. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to never judge a boob by its cover?”
He looked ashamed, but not nearly enough. “Lisby, listen…”
“No, you listen, Elroy. I’m sick and tired of you prancing around here like you’re the king of all that is stylish. How dare you? Do I make fun of your nail polish?”
Over Elgin’s shoulder, Daria nodded at me. Well, I had made fun of his nail polish, but the right way, behind his back.
I continued. “Do I think perhaps it was worth a second look in your mirror this morning to see that maybe you should have thought about buttoning up at least one more button? Thirty-something is not the new ‘time to let it all hang out’.” Elgin’s head snapped back as his jaw dropped. He grabbed onto the front of his violently red and orange cowboy shirt. I felt activity behind me and knew it was probably the camera crew, but too late. It may take twenty-one days for something to become a habit, but I think after twenty-one hours of that stinking camera watching every move I made I took it for granted, and tended to forget about it. Besides, I was on a roll and not even the threat of a rolling camera was going to stop me.
Even though Elgin was always, in his own words, ‘homo primo’ and perfectly groomed, and there wasn’t a lot on the outside to take to task, he couldn’t go around treating people like this. I pointed my finger at him, my wrist moving back and forth as if I were still pounding a hammer. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts, Elgin. Maybe if you would take one second to get to know me you could find something of true value. How far do we have to take this whole Kitchen Shrink makeover? You want to turn me into a plastic figurine? That’s not going to make my life better. That’s not my problem.”
In complete silence, Elgin stared at me. Daria was shaking her head. I saw out of the corner of my eye Sam swing his camera around beside me. I didn’t care. “I’m not get
ting breast implants. I think they can be beautiful; a lot of my friends look gorgeous. But, they’re just not for me.”
“Lisby,” Elgin said. Boy, was he pissed. “Don’t go all Jersey Shore on me. I was just saying, I thought Sheila, on that new show on Bravo, should get breast implants.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true, Lisby,” Daria said, nodding at me.
Oh. “Oh.” Where does one go from there? “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Elgin.” I held up my hands in a pleading motion as he pushed by me and stormed out of the family room. My head jerked as the front door slammed. “Daria, what have I done?” Sam continued to film as Daria hugged me. I saw him nod at her.
“Sam, can you please stop?” I asked him. It’s not enough to just make an ass of myself; I get to do it so it’s recorded for posterity. I think since I hadn’t seen any actual footage of myself yet I didn’t realize how bad I could or would, look.
“Honey, it’s OK,” Daria said, trying to soothe me. “But dang, girlfriend’s got some issues, huh?”
“I was just so mad when I thought he thought I wasn’t good enough and needed plastic surgery to help my crappy life. You know me, Daria. I never would have said any of that stuff. I’m so embarrassed. How can I make it up to him?”
“He’ll get over it. It’s good TV after all.”
“Oh, my gosh.” I hid my face in my hands. “Sam, please, can you stop?”
He didn’t answer, just pulled his head away from the viewfinder and smiled at me. He whispered, “You’re doing fine,” at me.
“Well, it’s good to know what you don’t want out of life,” Daria said, rubbing my back.
“I can’t believe what an idiot I am. I just assumed he was targeting me.”
“I know,” Daria soothed. “So, you don’t want implants. That’s cool. What do you want?”
I smiled. “I don’t know. I want kids who love me as much as I love them.” I tried to laugh. “Maybe a good guy, one I can trust, and laugh with. One who knows he’s lucky to have me.” Daria nodded at me. “This is getting too sappy.” I straightened my shoulders. “If there is that much magic in the universe, it would be nice to have a hairdryer that could blow dry my hair in under a minute.”
Daria laughed at that. “Right?”
“With no frizzies,” I added.
“They can put a man on the moon,” she agreed. She followed me back into the kitchen. I needed another session with Mr. Hammer to try to make sense of what I had just done. I went back to the destruction. No kitchen floor, no appliances, wires hanging out everywhere. It was cold, dirty, and dusty in there, and that was just my heart.
Ryan also quickly realized that reality TV, just like life itself, ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. He was performing his money-begging routine, not knowing he was being filmed.
“Mommy,” he starts out in his deep baritone. He always calls me ‘Mommy’ when he wants something. It usually always works, too. “Can I have some money?” And he wasn’t talking $1.00 for the soda machine. The ante’s been upped in the years since I was a kid and had to babysit for my spending money. That was in the dark ages. When I used to lay on the couch, holding my eyelids open, trying to stay awake, hoping against hope that if the parents stayed out for one more hour, I would make five-whole-dollars.
My kids never believed me, or, if they did, didn’t see what that had to do with them. I told Ryan to “Go ahead and,” wait for it, my new catchphrase, “take a twenty.” He headed into the family room to find my purse on the end table by the front door. He knew the jig was up when the camera filmed him pilfering two twenties from my wallet. He threw one on the floor and stormed out. We were going to look like a freak show.
Chapter 8
Hammered and Nailed
‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good’ whatever the hell that means. Brett used to try to tell me it meant that things aren’t always what they seem, and even in an ill wind or misfortune, someone benefits, somewhere. Whatever! Trust me. Wind can be bad news. The hackles go up on my neck during a Santa Ana, making me even crankier than ever. The hot, dry winds caused electric shocks from touching even my car door, which annoyed me almost as much as when Ryan, the big oaf, walked too closely behind me and gave me a flat tire when I was wearing flip-flops.
Add allergy attacks and other peoples’ bad moods and you got yourself a Santa Ana—a way too pleasant-sounding name for the insidious positive ions that are getting blown around. They should call it Santa Diablo or maybe Viento Chucha: bitch wind. Good things don’t happen in southern California during a Santa Ana. It’s just a bad scene, which people use as their excuse for acting up. So, while it was almost December, the temperature was going to be in the 70s today, thanks to a no good Santa Ana. I guess I can complain about anything.
I got an electric shock from my microwave (the one in my bathroom). My hair looked like 50 different directions of ugly. My eyes had bags so puffy it looked like I hot glue gunned pot-stickers to my face. I knew I was doomed to a terrible day. I headed downstairs hoping Trish the makeup lady would be there to do me.
“Hey, Elgin,” I said walking into my so-called kitchen. He beamed at me. Oh, no. Now what?
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.
“Very funny.”
He actually looked puzzled. “What?”
“I look like something the cat dragged in and then tried to clean the kitchen with. I look like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. I look like…”
“Yeah, yeah, you look fine,” he waved my declarations off and jerked his head to an area over my left shoulder.
I turned to look. Oh, hey, I was going to have walls again. Cool. They started to do the drywall. Wait a minute. I went and stood next to Elgin for a better view. Oh, my. Elgin reached over and pushed my chin up to close my gaping mouth.
“I’m just say-ing,” he said.
I nodded. I finally turned my head to look at Elgin and we both burst out laughing.
“Feel, or no feel?” He whispered in my ear.
I cupped my hand against his ear. “Feel. Big time.”
“Come on, I’ll introduce you.” After I got my microphone on, my new best friend took my hand and led me over to such a good-looking construction guy he should have been on a Pepsi commercial. OK, Dr. Pepper commercial.
“Phil-O, meet Lisby. Lisby,” Elgin did what appeared to be a three musketeer swashbuckling arm extending bow with a wanky circular hand motion, “Phil-O.” To me, he explained, “He’s doing the drywall.”
“Yes, he is,” I said stupidly, feeling like a sixth grade girl meeting an eighth grade hottie. Although trust me, I’m sure I was old enough to be Phil-O’s...older sister. “Nice,” I added. “The drywall, I mean. Good job.”
I rubbed my left hand across the panel he had just nailed onto the framework. Phil-O turned and slung his hammer through a loop on his tool belt, lucky hammer, wiped his hand on his blue jeans and then held his hand out to shake mine. Oh God, my palm was wet. I tried to wipe it surreptitiously by patting Elgin’s back before I reached for Phil-O’s hand. “Hi.”
“Pleased to meet you,” came a deep anchorman baritone greeting as he clasped my hand. I’m not proud of myself but I giggled like that sixth grade girl.
“Nice to meet you,” I finally managed to say. “Where are you from?” I added. And why haven’t I met anyone like you before? I wondered. This man was gorgeous. Eyelashes that could practically double as awnings, shielding big brown eyes that looked like at least 76% cacao, the dark chocolate that is now good for our hearts.
“Hang on a second,” he said, turning to finish nailing a section of drywall. I’m sure mine and Elgin’s heads swiveled at the same time, giving a once over of Phil-O’s low slung jeans with two inches of boxers riding just below the dimpled concave curve of his muscled back. Our eyes swooped down. Baby got back. Elgin must have read my thoughts as he mimed squeezing two red playground four-square balls.
Phil-O
interrupted my lascivious thoughts by asking if I wanted to help him tape the seams. “I’d tape his seams,” stupid Elgin whispered really loudly while he blatantly elbowed me in my ribs. Elgin was the biggest ham I knew and nothing was out of bounds for him to say or do on camera. “Now don’t outtalk the poor guy seven to one, ‘cause this show better be a success…I’m not taking the fall if you fail, but baby, if this show is a hit, I’m going places.”
Why did all of that sound kind of familiar? What was Elgin talking about? Why would he think I’d outtalk Phil-O seven to one? What an odd thing for Elgin to say. It sounded really familiar. In fact, I had just said something like that not so long ago. Who was I talking to? Just then, I saw Sam focusing his camera on me and Phil-O. And I knew. Because that’s what I had jokingly said to Sam after we first met. Right after I thought my big interview was over. He must have just kept the camera rolling.
“Sam, are you kidding me?” I asked, clawing at my chest to muffle the sound over my microphone.
He tilted his head over the side of the camera’s viewfinder. “What’s up, Lisby?”
“I can’t believe you were taping our talk last week. I thought you were just, oh, stupid me, being friendly.”
A look of understanding crossed his face. “Lisby, I was being friendly. You didn’t say anything bad when we were talking. You were just more relaxed and more yourself, which is what the producers want. In fact, they were really pleased with it. I wasn’t trying to hide anything; I was just trying to help you out. You were great.”
I had really liked Sam and always looked forward to seeing him, thinking he had my back. I stared at him, wishing I could take a time out to go draft a really good response, polish it up, and deliver it with aplomb. “Well, if you were trying to help, why didn’t you let me know the camera was still rolling?”
