A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I can’t help myself. It doesn’t matter what the guy looks like, he can’t just invite himself over at three A.M. I call right back.

  “Hello?” Dave answers.

  “How do you know I’m home right now? How do you know I’m not with some other guy?” I say, maybe a little too belligerently.

  “Oh,” he says, disappointedly. “Are you with some other guy?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re at home?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The next time he speaks he sounds genuinely hurt. “Well, why did you call me if you didn’t want to see me?”

  I stare up at the ceiling. How do I get myself into such things? “Be here in twenty minutes, or don’t come at all.”

  I hang up and race to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I then head to my closet, throwing off my evening clothes as I paw through my lingerie drawer. Silk pajamas—no. Ripped T-shirt—definitely not. Ah—a red lace teddy. Perfect. I put it on, then throw a white terry-cloth robe over it. This way, it’ll look like I was going to bed, but just happen to be wearing something sexy once in bed. I run over to my book of advice:

  If a man calls you at three a.m., he is giving you what we in the 00s called a “booty call.” He wants only one thing—do not give it to him. Have some self-respect.

  Well, it is good advice.

  Twenty minutes later, my doorbell rings. I have brushed my teeth, gargled Listerine, changed my sheets, sprayed Chanel No. 5 on my sheets, sprayed Chanel No. 5 on my neck for good measure, and reapplied my lipstick.

  Okay, so I didn’t listen to my own advice. Like I’m the first woman in the world who’s ever done that.

  Four

  The heart has a mind of its own.

  The following morning, I wake up, and a feeling of love washes over me. Ah, if I thought about it for a few moments—this really could be the guy I’m with forever. Dare I even think…no, not yet. With a smile as big as a hippo’s, I roll over and put my head on Dave’s chest. I look at him, beaming….

  It’s then that I realize it’s over.

  He’s awake. He’s tense. I feel like if he could chew his arm off….

  “Good morning,” he says, his words catching in his throat.

  Translation: “I need to get the fuck out of here.”

  “Good morning,” I say, then I kiss him. It was worth a shot. His lips actually purse. There’s an awkward silence that lasts, oh, about half a year.

  I finally abort our pregnant pause. “You want to go get some breakfast?” I ask sweetly.

  Translation: “Please don’t make me feel horrible about what I did last night.”

  “No. I should get going,” he says awkwardly, getting up to leave.

  “Something I said?” I joke. I can’t help myself. I just can’t wait by the phone for another week, second-guessing every detail of last night.

  Dave forces a smile as he puts on his underwear. “No. Not at all. You’re great. You’re amazing, in fact.”

  “So, naturally, you’re leaving,” I say, clutching the sheets to keep them over my naked chest as I sit up.

  Dave sighs, then sits back down on the bed. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  I thought I was seeing him. Silly me. But I’m smart enough to know not to enlighten him with that bit of obvious information. “Um…there might be a few other guys sniffing around.”

  “What a relief,” he practically belts out. “I mean, I figured you were seeing a bunch of men—a woman who looks like you. Truth is, there’s this girl I’ve been seeing for a bit. She’s not my girlfriend, or at least I haven’t started calling her my girlfriend yet, but I’m feeling really guilty right now—so I guess she is.”

  As Dave continues his monologue, and proceeds to get dressed, I stay firmly entrenched in all my covers. There’s no way he’s seeing me naked again. I’m humiliated enough.

  I won’t even finish the story. Every modern woman has lived through it. Let’s just move on.

  There will never be peace in the Middle East.

  Well, not the most creative thing I could write, but I’m right, aren’t I? I’m sitting at a Beverly Hills wedding salon, waiting for my sister to arrive to put me in something hideous. I don’t want to write another anti-wedding comment in my book of advice because, let’s face it, women love weddings. We love everything about them. We love the cake, the champagne, the being the center of attention, all the gifts. We love that we can make our nearest and dearest look like a giant cupcake, and not feel the least bit guilty about it.

  That said, I’ve just been dumped. I feel bitter.

  No one’s here yet, so I open one of the bridal magazines to make myself feel worse. Here’s an article that says, “A surprising trend in the South: one out of five brides opts for a wedding with fewer than 100 in attendance.” What surprises me is that the other four have more than that. The article then informs me that one of the most popular wedding themes is Cinderella. Yeah—’cuz it worked out for Princess Diana so nicely. I flip through the pages to an article entitled: “The Best Dresses Right Now: Princess Gowns, Outrageous Ruffles”—those must be for the bridesmaids and not the bride—“and One Marvelous Mini!” I turn to the page with the minidress. Yikes! Who would the bride be wearing this for? Is she planning to pick someone up at her own wedding?

  Next article: “Tiaras for Springtime!” I would think you would have to be pretty ballsy to wear a tiara, unless your first name happens to be preceded by the title “Princess.”

  On the next page are some invitations with teddy bears on them. I pull out my notebook and write:

  If you are publicly declaring yourself an adult, and old enough to get married, try to avoid teddy bears and cartoon characters for your wedding invitations.

  “You look like shit.” I look up, and there’s my brother Jamie.

  “I was up until six this morning,” I inform him. “Then I got dumped around eight. What are you doing here?”

  “Mom said I had to come so we could take Andy to lunch for her twenty-ninth birthday. Sorry about the dumping. First time?”

  “No. I’m happy to report I’ve been dumped before. Thanks for asking,” I say, slamming the magazine shut.

  “I meant did you sleep with him for the first time?” Jamie asks.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oooh, first time. Ouch,” Jamie says, rubbing my shoulder sympathetically.

  “How would you know that? I didn’t say that!”

  My brother Jamie is six years younger than me, five younger than our sister. My parents call him the “oops” baby, but I suspect he was the second choice in that old “save the marriage” adage: new house, new baby, new kitchen. He is the light of my life, which I mean in as unsick and un–Angelina Jolie a way as possible.

  Having a little brother is like getting information from the enemy camp. When he was the tender age of five, he explained to me that Bill Gardner must have a crush on me, or he wouldn’t call me every day to stay silent on the phone.

  “Was he drunk?” Jamie asks knowingly.

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  “Were you?”

  Yes, I was, but I’m sure as hell not going to admit it. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation’s going.”

  “Dopamine,” Jamie says. “That’s your problem.”

  I open the magazine again and pretend to read. Jamie says nothing further. Damn. Finally I close the magazine. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s dopamine?”

  “It’s the chemical your body makes when you’re drunk. It makes you happy,” Jamie informs me.

  “I thought that was oxytocin.”

  “No, that just makes you all unnecessarily attached to us. Dopamine makes you happy. The problem is, if you’ve had too much to drink, the following morning, you wake up depressed, because your body’s out of dopamine. That’s why you should never sleep with a man the first time when he’s drunk. If you do, the next morning he wakes up depressed, and he associates
you with his depression. Which, to answer your next question, is why all of us say we’ll call you, then never do.”

  I furrow my brow, and stare at him incredulously. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “Cosmopolitan magazine,” Jamie says proudly. “And I have a lot of ex-girlfriends, and if I didn’t listen to them and all their theories, they wouldn’t still call me at two A.M. when they need some…uh…someone to listen to them.”

  “God, a two A.M. booty call. You long for those things when you’re married,” my cousin Jenn says, waddling up to us. I’m not being insulting—Jenn is six months pregnant, and that pregnant woman waddle is just starting to take.

  I stand corrected on not knowing anyone who got engaged in less than a year. Jenn met her husband—get this—at a wedding. On Valentine’s Day. He proposed on their fifth date.

  She told him to get serious—she was still in her Residency. (Yes, she’s a doctor, besides. Couldn’t you just puke?) She “didn’t have time” for a relationship. Besides, Rob was an English professor—what could they possibly have in common?

  Everything. Jenn actually found a man who liked watching Mad About You reruns at two A.M. And could use the word casuist in a sentence, and not sound like Diane Chambers from Cheers.

  Rob proposed every day until their six-month anniversary, when she finally said yes.

  They were married, to the day, one year after they met.

  They’ve been happily married ever since, and now have a four-year-old, Alex; a three-year-old, Sean; and another one on the way.

  Jamie kisses Jenn on the cheek. “You look great.”

  Jenn gives him a kiss back. “Please. I’ve put on thirty pounds already. But thank you.” She turns to me. “Have you heard the latest? Black is out, she’s back to putting us in orange.”

  “Salmon,” I correct her.

  “Yeah, I looked that up. It turns out it’s orange.”

  Jenn was one of those rare brides who picked nice bridesmaids’ dresses for Andy and me that we could actually wear again. They were velvet, dark purple—gorgeous. So, for some odd reason, when she became Andy’s bridesmaid she thought it would be quid pro quo.

  Silly rabbit.

  “Like it’s not bad enough I’m going to have to be rolled down the aisle—now I have to look like I’m swimming upstream.”

  “Actually, since you’ve already spawned, I think you’re swimming downstream now,” I joke.

  “I’m going to get even. I swear I will,” Jenn assures me. “Mark my words—I’m a pregnant cranky woman with insomnia—I have time to plot my revenge.”

  “Charlie has to wear silver,” Jamie informs her.

  Jenn turns to me with an “Oh my God” look of disgust just as my sister rushes in.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Andy says, breathless. “I’ve just had the most hideous fight with Hunter.” Yes—Hunter. That’s her fiancé’s real name. We were so relieved to find out his last name wasn’t Green. “He’s just being horrible. And on my birthday, too!”

  Jamie and I exchange glances. None of us want to know, but we can’t help but ask.

  Sigh. I guess I’ll take the bomb. “What happened?”

  “I asked him to come today, and do you know what he said?” Andy’s voice is getting high enough to rival Minnie Mouse, and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears.

  “I’m sure whatever you want will be fine,” Jamie says.

  “I’m sure whatever you want will be fine!” Andy says at the same time, although in a much more frantic tone. “Like this wedding isn’t important to him at all.” She pulls out a tissue and dabs her eyes.

  “Well…,” I begin, trying to calm her down. “You should see that as a compliment. It means he trusts your taste.”

  “And that’s just the beginning!” Andy nearly screams at me. “Do you know what he did when I took him to register last night?!”

  “What’s ‘register’ mean?” Jamie leans in to ask Jenn.

  “It’s when you pick out a bunch of presents you want people to buy for you,” Jenn tells him.

  “Cool! You mean like a letter to Santa Claus?” Jamie asks, beaming as he turns to Andy. “Can you register for an Xbox?”

  “No!” she exclaims, then turns to me. “Anyway, we were looking at linens, and he picks this revolting maroon duvet…”

  Jamie looks at me questioningly. “Blanket,” I tell him.

  “…that just screams, ‘Hi, I’m a bachelor, and I don’t want to get married.’ So naturally, I’m appalled and I tell him so. Only I don’t want to be rude, so I just say, ‘Honey, I don’t think there’s a dust ruffle to match that.’ And he actually says to me—”

  “What’s a dust ruffle, and why do you need one?” Jamie asks.

  For this, Andy slaps him on the arm. “That’s exactly what he said.”

  “I was just asking,” Jamie tells her, then looks over to me inquisitively.

  “It’s something you put on the bed that hangs over the space underneath the bed,” I enlighten him.

  “Oh. So, like, you can hide your dirty clothes under there?” Jamie asks.

  Andy’s eyes widen. “If you’re in a fraternity, yes! For most people it’s to keep dust bunnies out from under your bed.”

  “But if they’re under your bed, and no one can see them, who cares?” Jamie asks.

  Andy slaps his arm again. Jamie rolls his eyes, but takes it like a man. Or should I say, a little brother who knows her wrath could be so much worse.

  “Anyway, Hunter’s taken no interest in anything about the wedding. It’s like it’s become all my job.”

  “Didn’t you quit your job just to—” Before I even finish the sentence, I know I’m toast.

  “Whose side are you on?!” Andy screeches at me. I can tell from her body language, she’s thinking about swatting me, too. But I’ll hit back, and a bride and maid of honor rolling around on the floor of the bridal salon pulling each other’s hair out would be tacky.

  “Sweetie, calm down,” Jenn says. “Let me explain how this works. If men were interested in planning weddings, there’d be subscriptions to Modern Groom magazine. There aren’t. You do the math.”

  Andy is about to slap her on the arm, but Jenn puts up her dukes. “Look, I have no shame in my condition. I’ll sit on you.”

  Andy sighs heavily, then pulls a folded magazine page from her purse. “Look at this. It’s how to deal with various types of groom personalities.” Andy unfolds the paper and gives it to Jamie to read. Then she looks at me. “I’m thinking of calling it off.”

  Knowing she does not mean that for a second, I provide the reassurance that she needs in her moment of insecurity and crisis. “And give up the one-and-a-half-carat ring?”

  “If he really loved me, he’d show interest in the thing I was interested in,” Andy says, then points to the article Jamie’s reading. “Look at this one: ‘The “Take Charge” Groom.’ This is a man who is so excited about his wedding, he is planning every detail, to the exclusion of his lovely bride.”

  “This is a man who hasn’t come out yet,” my brother says.

  To which my father yells from the doorway, “Will you guys stop it with that! I’m not gay!” I look over, and there are my parents. My father is holding a big silver wrapped box, which I’m going to guess is Andy’s first wedding gift.

  He hands it to her as I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Your mom wanted to get a man’s opinion of what you’re wearing. Plus, she offered to buy me lunch afterwards.”

  Andy opens the present. It’s a maroon dust ruffle. My father beams. “I found it at Bloomingdales! Now you don’t have to fight about it anymore!”

  Andy bursts into tears. The day went downhill from there. Which led me to my final word of advice for my descendant:

  If heredity is real—we’re both screwed.

  Five

  No one should have to wake up if the small hand is still on the left side of the clock.
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br />   I awaken at four A.M. Monday morning (the right side of the clock—which is even worse) to start my day. Bleary-eyed, I slam down the button on my alarm clock, then pick up the phone to call Drew.

  He answers on the first ring with a frantic, “I’m up!”

  “Good,” I say, suppressing a yawn and lighting a cigarette. “The P.A. is going to pick you up at four-forty precisely.”

  “Got it. Call me back in fifteen minutes,” he orders, yawning, then hangs up on me.

  I hang up the phone, putter over to my shower, quickly do the morning washing routine, then walk back to the phone and dial him at 4:20.

  “I’m up!”

  “I gave you five extra minutes,” I tell Drew.

  “Christ, I need water.”

  “Are you hung over?” I ask as I rub moisturizer into my face.

  “No,” he says indignantly. “Maybe. What’s it mean when a woman says she’s not looking for a relationship?”

  “It means, ‘Talk me into it.’”

  “Damn, that’s what I thought. So much for a port in Maui.”

  I light another cigarette, and jot down in my book:

  There’s no such thing as free sex. Eventually you pay for it.

  A woman pays for it differently than a man—we wait by the phone, and fill ourselves with self-loathing—but it’s still a universal.

  “Which P.A.’s picking me up?” Drew asks, cutting into my thoughts.

  “Madison, I think.”

  “Is that a guy or a girl?”

  “Guy.”

  “Then five more minutes,” Drew says, and hangs up.

  Three calls later, and we’re all on our way to Stage 8 of the 20th Century Fox lot.

  I love being on sets. It’s like being at Disneyland. There’s something about walking into an old haunted house, or a Park Avenue walkup, or a Christmas village—complete with snow and glittery ice—that reminds me of the sense of magic and wonder I had as a kid.