A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I mean, let’s face it: we tend to lose those last ten pounds when we’re in love. You can go to Weight Watchers all you want, when you’re happily in love and having sex all the time, those pounds just melt off—don’t they?

  I think the other reason people compare me to Charlize is because that’s my first name—and up until her I never knew anyone else who had it. My friends call me Charlie. My family calls me Charlie. Dave should really think about calling me—ever.

  Anyway, right now I’m standing in front of my house, shivering, and stomping my feet up and down for warmth as I wait for Dawn to pick me up. I jot down in my notebook:

  Repeat this mantra when down about men: “I don’t need a lover, just several really close friends.”

  Dave never called. It’s eight o’clock. I waited by the phone, filled with false hope, until about 7:58.

  I see a black limo pulling up, and quickly stub out my cigarette. Despite how cold I am, I wait for the chauffeur to get out and open the door for me. When I step in, Dawn is draped across the long seat with a glass of champagne in her hand. She looks stunning in a dark red Versace dress with a slit up the side. I hate her. How am I going to get a man tonight with that sitting right next to me?

  Dawn and I met at a dorm party my first week of college. We immediately became best friends and, with Kate, lived together from our sophomore through senior years.

  The first time I saw Dawn, she had a glass of Merlot in one hand and a cigarette in the other. And somehow everything she said matched that personality exactly. Dawn is gorgeous. She is the product of three interracial marriages—something that could only happen in L.A. Her paternal grandfather is Japanese, her paternal grandmother is black, her maternal grandfather is Hispanic, and her maternal grandmother is Jewish. Which means she’s the most exotic-looking woman ever to grace her temple—both her Buddhist temple and her Jewish temple. And her Catholic church. And the Baptist one down the street. She considers herself “mostly Jewish” but says, “When I die, God’ll sort it all out.” She celebrates Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Easter, Passover, Halloween, Cinco de Mayo, Mardi Gras, Dia de las Muertas, and the Chinese New Year (I never figured that one out).

  Her job: MAW—model/actress/whatever. Only she actually works (most MAWs have an extra W at the end—waitress). When she walks into a room, every head turns: the women, to call her a “skinnybitch,” the men, to get themselves into trouble with their girlfriends later. She has dark hair, flawless cappuccino skin, and a mouth that could shame a sailor. But I love her. She’s fun, she’s actually very nice when you get over her whole “I’m so over you” attitude, and she gets me into the best clubs and parties. This is what I need right now.

  Dawn pours me a glass of champagne as I climb in. “Sweetie, we’ve talked about the eyeliner.”

  I’d been in the car less than five seconds. Ever feel like you’re totally not cool even around your own friends?

  “Please don’t start,” I say. “What looks good on you looks totally unnatural on me.”

  She hands me my champagne, then pulls an eyeliner out of her purse. “Look up.”

  I look up out of habit. Dawn has been redoing my makeup since college. She draws black eyeliner on my lower lid. “Whose limo is this?” I ask her while staring at the limo ceiling.

  “Steve’s. He was the director on the music video I did today. I promised to be in a video for Justin Timberlake in exchange for it, so it’s really a work thing.”

  “You’re going to be in a Justin Timberlake video?” I say, sounding way too impressed.

  “He wants to go ethnic again, if you can believe that. Look down.”

  I do. “Are you dating him?”

  “Timberlake? Isn’t he gay?”

  “Steve,” I say.

  “Hmm…define ‘date.’”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Mmmmm…not yet. I can’t decide. I think he’s the type who would want to cuddle afterwards, and spend the weekend. I can’t have a man all in my business, you know?”

  “Yeah, I understand. You give a guy like that the least bit of encouragement and then what do you have? A husband, babies…happiness.”

  Dawn puts away the liner. “You look fabulous. Give me your phone.”

  “No,” I say, as Dawn grabs my purse, yanks out my phone, and turns it off.

  “Hey!” I protest. “What if Drew calls?”

  She pops my phone into her purse. “You’re not waiting for Drew, you’re waiting for Lunkhead. And his deadline for seeing you this weekend just passed.”

  I know she’s right. I shouldn’t get all dressed up—with perfect eyeliner to boot—just to wait by the phone. Nonetheless…“I have to be available for Drew twenty-four-seven. It’s my job.”

  “Fine.” Dawn pulls out her Web-enabled cell phone, or, as I like to call it, the “Great, now we can wait by the phone, and wait by our e-mail” thingamajig.

  “What’s his number?” she asks.

  “You know his number,” I say, crossing my arms and sighing loudly.

  “I do?”

  “He gave it to you at his birthday party last year. Remember? He programmed it in himself.”

  Confused, Dawn goes through her address book. She finds it: his home number, cell number, and e-mail address. “Huh,” she says, surprised.

  Now I ask you, if a guy gave you his home number, cell number, and e-mail address, wouldn’t it occur to you he might be interested?

  It didn’t occur to her. Drew spent three months asking me about her. I spent three months trying to get her to call him, saying things like I think it’s possible he might like her, and Dawn spent three months saying, “Don’t be silly.”

  As Dawn calls, I open my notebook and write:

  If a man gives you three different ways to get in touch with him, he’s interested in you. This is not rocket science. Don’t play dumb.

  “Hi, Drew. This is Dawn Fraiche. I’m a friend of…Well, that’s uncanny! How on earth did you remember me?”

  I let my face fall into my hands.

  Dawn continues talking to my boss. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh…Well, aren’t you sweet?…No. Listen, I’m about to go into a canyon, but I just want you to know Charlie’s having problems with her phone, so if you need to call her, can you call my cell phone instead…? Fabulous. The number’s 323-555-8642.”

  “No, what?” I whisper to her.

  She covers her phone. “What?”

  “You said no to him. What were you saying no to?”

  Dawn waves me off with her hand and returns to her conversation.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” she says into the phone. “Charlie and I are having a Girls’ Night Out. Maybe some other time….”

  Dawn makes staticky sounds, then yells, “I’m losing you! Bye!” and clicks off her phone. “He wants you to know some friends of his are taking him to Maui for the weekend, so he probably won’t be calling, and he’ll see you on the set first thing Monday morning.”

  “What did you say no to?” I ask, trying not to sound panicked.

  “Oh, that was weird. He asked if I wanted to fly out and spend the weekend with him and his friends. Isn’t that bizarre?”

  Clueless. Absolutely clueless.

  Before I have a chance to answer, we pull up to Kate’s office building. Kate is standing in front in a green Armani business suit, holding a large black leather briefcase, and talking to someone on her cell phone. One can only assume it’s Jack.

  “Look, the girls are here. I gotta go…Yeah, me too. Bye.” Kate slams her phone shut, and gets into the limo. She mutters to herself, “The things we put up with for sex on tap…”

  As Dawn pours her a glass of champagne, Kate falls into a seat across from us, and gives an exhausted sigh. “From now on, do not use the F word, the C word, the B word, or the R word in my company.”

  The R word. Dawn and I exchange confused glances. I know I will regret this, but I cannot help myself: “What’s the R word?” I ask Kate
.

  “Relationship.”

  Fair enough, I think. Very Rulesish not to use the R word.

  Now Dawn can’t help herself. “Wait, then the B word would be…?”

  “Boyfriend,” Kate says.

  Well, now I’m just confused. “Okay, so then the C word would be…?”

  “Commitment.”

  I nod and smile. Just got it. “Which would make the F word…” and we all say together, “Future.”

  “Honestly, Kate, why don’t you just marry the poor guy?” Dawn asks.

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Kate says as she throws her phone into her purse, pulls a little black dress from her briefcase, and takes off her jacket.

  Dawn knew it was a loaded question. Since their senior year in college, Jack and Kate have not been planning their wedding, they’ve been planning their breakup. But, as Kate once pointed out, you have to really commit to a breakup for it to take. It takes as much of a commitment to break up as to move in together. You have to say to yourself, “I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life with this person. And I’m willing to put in the time and energy necessary to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Trying to change the subject, I smile proudly and say, “Dominique de Villepin.”

  “What?” Kate says as she unbuttons her blouse.

  “The French prime minister. It’s Dominique de Villepin.”

  “I thought it was Jacques Chirac,” Dawn says.

  Kate pulls off her blouse, wearing nothing on top but a red velvet bra. “No, he’s the president, not the prime minister.”

  “Oh, that’s right, they have both,” Dawn says. “Victoria’s Secret?”

  “La Perla,” Kate says, pulling her black dress over her head. “Charlie, you’ve sounded miserable all week. And you can’t be this upset just because Fuckface didn’t call. What’s really going on?”

  “I’m fine,” I insist.

  I get one “Shyeah!” and one “Aw, hell no!” You can guess who said what.

  “Okay, so maybe I’m a little bummed out,” I force myself to admit.

  “Why? It’s not the thirty thing, is it?” Dawn asks as she pops a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth, then hands me a piece.

  I take the gum square. Even though I have no intentions of quitting smoking, I would like to quit for tonight. Orange. It tastes like Bayer aspirin for children. Which actually does taste better than a Marlboro, but the last thing I need is to get addicted to nicotine gum and cigarettes.

  In response to her question, I mutter, “Maybe. I mean, my little sister’s getting married in four weeks, and I’m now a walking cliché.”

  “Please. She’s marrying a CPA who lives in Stevenson Ranch. Are we really jealous?” Dawn says in her “we’re so over them” tone.

  “Yes, because…Wait, do you even know where Stevenson Ranch is?” I ask Dawn. Stevenson Ranch is a fairly new community located way the hell out at the edge of the county. It’s very white bread. I can’t imagine Dawn has even heard of it, much less formed an opinion about it.

  “Not exactly,” she admits. “But it sounds too white. So what’s the real problem?”

  Silence. She knows me. Yes, I am jealous my sister is getting married before me. But I live in a city where absolutely no one gets married before they’re thirty. So why do I feel so desperate?

  After a few more agonizing moments, I finally spit out, “I’ve never read War and Peace.”

  Dawn and Kate exchange a bewildered look. They have not a clue what I’m babbling about.

  “And I don’t speak Spanish,” I continue. “I live in Los Angeles, and I don’t speak Spanish. Took Latin in school like an idiot and now here I am speaking nada.”

  Silence. Dawn takes another sip of her champagne to stall for time. Kate slithers out of her Armani pants, and pulls her dress down over her waist.

  After several pensive moments, Dawn finally gives me a complicated solution to my complicated problem. “So go read War and Peace.”

  “But get the Rosemary Edmonds translation,” Kate says, spritzing herself with a bottle of Chanel No. 5. “Most of the other translations are downright archaic.”

  “No, you guys aren’t getting it. I’m going to be thirty next month, and I’ve never done any of the things I thought I was going to grow up to do. It’s too depressing. I’m supposed to have a fabulous career, a fabulous husband, and three children by now. I don’t have any of those things.”

  Silence fills the car. None of us have any of those things. We aren’t married. We didn’t buy the fabulous home with the white picket fence. We didn’t write the great American novel, or star in the great American sitcom, or do anything that will put us in the White House later in life. None of us have ever been to a PTA meeting, and we have no guarantees we ever will.

  It’s no wonder they can’t think of anything to say to me. Who could? What possible solution is there to my life to make it more fulfilled?

  Dawn scrunches her lips toward one ear. “Have you gotten laid lately? That usually helps.”

  “No,” I say. “I had the most amazing third date with Dave, and I withheld, and he said he was going to call me and it’s been a week and he still hasn’t and I’m going to need a lot of drinks tonight.”

  As I end my sentence abruptly to take a gulp of my champagne, I suddenly have the horrific realization that I’m starting to sound like my mother. Ewwwww…

  “Why don’t you call him?” Kate asks.

  “Uh-uh. I’ve got the Post-It on the phone.”

  Aaah—the infamous Post-It. What girl hasn’t at some point stuck a Post-It on every phone in her house saying, “Don’t call him!” Or the longer, “If he wanted to talk to you, he’d call. Go do something constructive!” In college, Kate, Dawn, and I once had three Post-Its stuck on the same phone. Assorted colors—so we didn’t accidentally rip off our roommate’s Post-It once we called our guy anyway.

  “That is such outdated thinking,” Kate insists. “The guy hasn’t done anything wrong, you had a good time, just call him.” She sips her champagne. “Oh, wow!” she says to Dawn, “you got the Grande Dame.”

  “No,” I say right back. “Then he’ll accept the date, and I’ll sleep with him just to make myself feel more desirable in his mind, and he won’t call for the fifth date, and I’ll be wallowing in self-pity for another week.”

  “I don’t know. Getting some might boost your ego if you think about it the right way,” Dawn says thoughtfully. “I mean, there’s something to be said for the virtues of a fuckbuddy.” She gives Kate a meaningful stare. “Of course, you’re not actually supposed to date them for nine years.”

  Later I would write:

  Women are not capable of having “fuckbuddies.” It’s a concept men came up with. Don’t buy the hype.

  “So not true. Works in theory—not in practice,” I insist.

  “Because inevitably you date the guy anyway, and no matter how hard you try, you get stuck with him,” Kate reminds us.

  Dawn rolls her eyes. “Did Jack have the nerve to propose to you again?”

  “When we started dating, I made my boundaries very clear,” Kate insists. Her cell phone rings. She pulls it out of her purse, then turns it off.

  I glance at Dawn, who says to Kate, “If you don’t answer, he’s just going to call seventeen times. And he’ll leave seventeen messages, all marked ‘urgent,’ and you’ll feel incredibly guilty by the time you get all the messages. So why not just call him back now, so we can all have a fun night.”

  “Because we had a fight last night. And he’s trying to get me to come over so we can make up. And, if I do that, I’m going go miss Girls’ Night, and I don’t want to do that.”

  I glance at Dawn again. Kate has a point. Although I adore Jack—he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met—he does seem to always find a reason for Kate not to go out with us.

  Even though I think I know the answer, I ask Kate, “So, what did you guys f
ight about?”

  “My inability to make a commitment,” Kate says, staring at her phone.

  Um…okay. “Is this you saying that, or Jack saying that?” I ask.

  “Our marriage counselor.”

  “But you’re not married,” Dawn points out.

  “I know that.”

  “And yet you’re seeing a marriage counselor?” Dawn asks.

  “I am well aware of the irony,” Kate snaps at her.

  Dawn puts her palms out in a show of surrender. “All respect.”

  Kate shakes her head. “I’ve been through this with him a million times. Relationships don’t work. When we started dating, he was committed to that. Now he’s talking exclusivity, and it’s like he never heard me. I am a human being. I have feelings and emotions and dreams and using someone for sex was a part of that. I can’t believe he would trick me like this.”

  Dawn begins shaking her head. It’s just so unbelievable. We sip our champagne in silence.

  Eventually, Kate sighs, and turns her phone back on. It’s still ringing. She picks up. “Look, I’m out with the girls tonight. You can’t keep making me feel guilty for…I know. I love you, too…No, I’m not. It’s just…yeah…”

  Kate looks toward us apologetically. “Okay, maybe for an hour,” she says into the phone. “But that’s it…. I love you, too. Bye.”

  Kate clicks her phone shut, then pleads to us with her eyes. “I’m sorry. Would you guys hate me if I went over there, just for an hour?”

  We say “Fine” and “No problem.” I mean, why state the obvious? That we won’t be seeing her for the rest of the night.

  “Thanks. You’re the best. I’ll be back by eleven.”

  We drop Kate off at Jack’s. She blows us each a kiss, and leaves in her best lingerie and sexiest black dress. But they’re going to break up. Really.