A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “I’m afraid I have a night shoot,” Dawn tells him.

  “Saturday?”

  “Girls’ Night,” we both say simultaneously.

  “Who’s having Girls’ Night?” Doug asks, coming up behind me.

  “We are,” I say quickly, hoping to dissuade Drew from joining us. “Our friend Kate is getting engaged, and we hope to celebrate with her that night.”

  “Or alternately,” Dawn adds, “comfort her when she breaks up with her boyfriend for having the nerve to propose.”

  Drew and Doug exchange a confused look. Neither Dawn nor I bother to explain further. (If we did, it would take so long to explain Kate’s relationship that it would be Saturday night before we even left Drew’s house.)

  “Well,” says Doug, taking my hand in his and swinging it playfully, “I’m sure she’ll want to spend the later part of the night with her fiancé. How about if Drew and I meet you then?”

  A date! He’s asking me on a date! Ooohh, just the thought of it is making me happy and excited. I look over at Dawn, grinning from ear to ear.

  She shakes her head “no” ever so slightly. I purse my lips and frown back at her.

  Rats. No date for Charlie.

  “I don’t think Saturday’s a good fit,” Dawn says diplomatically. “I mean, what could be more boring than listening to a bunch of women talk about weddings?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Drew says, cheerfully oblivious to the subtle hint that he’s not wanted. “If you start to get boring, I’ll tell you to change the subject.” He puts his arm around Dawn. “Now, where should we go?”

  Dawn darts her eyes at me, hoping I’ll be more blunt with Drew. (As if.)

  Drew uses our silence as an invitation to plan our evening. “We could hit Joseph’s, but that’s kind of over. That new place near Miyagi’s has a VIP room that’s pretty cool. Oh! What about that place in Hollywood with the aquarium?”

  Dawn starts to interrupt. “Maybe we could see each other sometime next week…”

  Drew ignores her completely. “Blue, no. Kafka’s, too snooty.”

  Dawn looks to me for advice on how to handle him. I shrug. Finally, she relents. “Broncing Bill’s.”

  “No,” Drew says, shooting down her idea. “I don’t like the food there.”

  “Neither do I,” Dawn agrees. “But that’s where we’re going.”

  “The tourist bar?” Doug asks, surprised and a little patronizing.

  I flush in embarrassment for about half a second, before Dawn retorts, “No, not the tourist bar. The ‘I already go to the trendy clubs on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and I want to wear jeans and drink bourbon’ bar.”

  Nice comeback. Man, I wish I could be like Dawn. She could out-attitude J. Lo.

  Or Barbara Streisand.

  Or Puff Daddy.

  Doug smiles. I can tell from the look on his face—point taken.

  “I can’t wait,” Drew says, then asks Dawn, “Can I walk you to your car?”

  Yeah, I think. Because the walk out to his gated driveway can be so dangerous this time of night.

  But she says yes, and they walk out together, leaving Doug and me to our lonesome.

  Doug offers to see me to my car, too, and what with it being so dangerous and all, I let him.

  We get out to my car, and I am relieved to see Dawn’s car parked so far away, she and Drew can’t see us.

  “I had a really good time tonight,” Doug says.

  “Me too,” I agree.

  He puts his hands in his pockets, and I fiddle with my car keys, and stare at my cake box.

  We continue that awkward “Is he going to kiss me, or should I just get into my car?” moment for a few more seconds before he says, “Maybe I could take you to a Lakers game some night.”

  “That sounds like fun!” I say brightly, although honestly I have no idea what I said during the course of the evening that makes him think I would find it the least bit enjoyable.

  Doug smiles, “Okay. We’ll talk about it more Saturday.”

  And then he leans in and kisses me. His lips are so soft, and he’s close enough that I can smell his cologne (Lagerfeld? Calvin Klein? Something with vanilla—because he smells like a giant chocolate chip cookie.)

  He pulls away, and smiles. “See you Saturday.”

  Seven

  Don’t go out with a man just because he looks good on paper. You’re not kissing paper.

  On my way home, I check my messages. Five on my cell phone. I hit *86. The first one’s from Kate. “Oh shit, you’re not there, either,” I hear her say, and I can tell she’s been crying. “Can you call me back when you get this? It’s kind of important.”

  Knowing Jack was proposing tonight, I don’t even bother to listen to the other four messages. I immediately call Kate at home.

  She picks up on the first ring, sniffling. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me. What happened?”

  Kate begins crying aloud. She’s crying so hard, she can barely get the words out. “Jack and I broke up.”

  I don’t say anything. I want to ask a million questions about how it happened, but I can’t even think of where to begin.

  Kate stops crying long enough to say, “He proposed tonight.” Then she starts crying again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  I can hear her grab a Kleenex. “Charlie, what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I want to marry him?”

  I stop at a red light, grab my pack of cigarettes, and hit the pack twice to pop one out. “I don’t know. Why don’t you want to marry him?”

  There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. I can hear Kate taking deep breaths to calm herself. “Because he’s not the one,” she says sadly. “He never was. He was almost the right one. We almost fit. It’s just never been quite…I don’t know. It’s just…we don’t quite fit. God, I’m such a screwup.”

  “You’re not a screwup,” I insist.

  “I am. I threw away a perfectly good man because I can’t commit. God, Dawn’s gonna hate me.”

  “Dawn’s not going to hate you,” I say as I light up my cigarette.

  “Yes, she is. She helped Jack pick out the ring. She set us up, for God’s sake. She loves him. Hell, I love him. Charlie, what’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you,” I assure her. “As a matter of fact, I’m gonna tell you something in confidence. But I don’t want you repeating it to Jack, or holding it against me, if you two end up getting back together.”

  “We’re not getting back together,” Kate insists. I’m silent, still waiting for my promise. “But, okay, even if we did, which we won’t, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “All right,” I say. “This is the healthiest I’ve heard you in years.”

  “Come again?” Kate says.

  “Well, let’s face it, you’re not stupid. You knew there were a lot of things wrong in the relationship, you just chose to ignore them because there were so many good things you didn’t want to give up. Now, you’re at the point in your life where you’re strong enough to give up the good stuff. You’re strong enough to expect more from your life. I’m proud of you for that. Most women aren’t that strong. They’re so terrifiied of being alone that they stay with the wrong guy, rather than risk loneliness waiting for the right guy.”

  There’s silence on the other end. “Thanks,” she says.

  More silence. More sniffling. “I’m used to talking to him nine times a day. I don’t know how I’m going to get through tomorrow. Hell, I don’t even know how I’m going to get through tonight. I know this sounds really stupid, but can you come over? I really can’t stand to be alone right now.”

  “I’m already driving towards you,” I say. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks. I know I’m being stupid. It’s just…I don’t even know how I’m going to get through tonight. He’s my last phone call.”

  “You’re not being stupid. You’re being human.” My phone beeps. “That’s me. Can I get it?” I
ask.

  “Okay,” Kate says.

  “I’m not leaving. Stay on the phone. And, remember, I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” Kate says.

  I click over. “Hello?”

  “Jack left me a bunch of messages,” Dawn says. “They broke up.”

  “I know. I have her on the other line. She’s afraid you’re going to be pissed at her.”

  “What? Why?” Dawn says incredulously.

  “She thinks because you set them up, you’re gonna hate her.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” Dawn says. “Tell her I’m driving over there. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  “I’m on my way there, too. Can you pick up some snacks?” I ask.

  “Sure. Booze, too?”

  Never drink when you’re depressed.

  “No. That’s the last thing she needs right now,” I say.

  We say our good-byes and hang up, and I go back to Kate to tell her we’re coming over.

  Dawn and I were up with Kate until about three in the morning. She couldn’t sleep, and who could blame her? It’s hard to give up your college boyfriend anytime, but to do it at thirty? Now that takes guts.

  I was proud of Kate, because she followed a tenet of advice some people spend their whole lives terrified to follow:

  Don’t ever be afraid to be alone.

  Eight

  Some days are a total waste of makeup.

  Friday, bleary-eyed, I spent most of the day on set looking for Jordan (who, it turns out, wasn’t even called in that day), trying not to answer too many personal questions about Dawn from Drew, and trying to dodge my family’s phone calls, a series of cat-and-mouse that began after the following exchange with my parents at six fucking A.M. in the morning:

  My phone rings, and I make the mistake of answering, assuming that if anyone is going to call me this early in the morning, either someone’s pregnant, or someone died. Or it’s Drew.

  I pick up the phone and answer “Hello,” while straining to unglue my eyes and read the clock.

  “Did I wake you?” my father says cheerfully.

  “Huh?” I grab the clock. 5:58. No, not even six. “Dad, what’s wrong? Is Mom okay?”

  “She’s fine. Are you still asleep?” he asks in astonishment, like everyone else in L.A. has already had their morning jog and breakfast, and I’m being lazy.

  “Yeah, I’m still asleep. It’s not even six o’clock.”

  “What are you going to do? Waste the whole day in bed?”

  This is a question I’m sure originated in the Midwest—where he’s from. It’s right up there with those golden oldies, “Cold enough for you?” and “The cold builds character.” “Dad, I’d only be wasting my whole day if my day were expected to end at nine in the morning with Regis and Kelly. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. What makes you think anything is wrong? How did your date go?”

  I sit up in my bed, and look for my cigarettes. “It wasn’t a date. It was just a few guys Drew thought about setting me up with. One of them was Chris. You know, Mom’s Chris?”

  “He’s not there, is he?” my dad asks, slightly panicked.

  “No!” I practically yell back, as I pull a cigarette from the pack. “I’m pretty sure there’s some rule about that.”

  “Thou shalt not covet thy mother’s irritatingly young and stupid boyfriend?”

  “Something like that,” I say, finding my matches, and lighting up. “Be nice to Mom. He’s not that stupid.”

  “He thought Napoleon was a dessert,” Dad says in disgust.

  “Napoleon is a dessert, Dad.”

  “Not when it’s marching on to Waterloo,” Dad points out. “Is someone else with you?”

  I take a drag from my cigarette. “Okay, in the first place, that’s a rude question. In the second place, I’m not going to dignify that question with a response, and in the third place…you don’t want to know.”

  “So, in other words, no.”

  Damn. “No,” I am forced to admit.

  “Has that guy David called?”

  “No,” I say, upset with myself for ever mentioning David to my mom, knowing full well:

  Anything you tell one parent goes to the other parent. Withhold information accordingly.

  “Well, you’ll find someone,” Dad assures me. “In the meantime, I just called because I needed to vent.”

  I rue the day my mother ever gave my father Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. It’s disconcerting to have a middle-aged man use expressions like, “I need to vent” and “I am going into my cave emotionally right now. Don’t follow me.”

  “Okay, Dad, what’s up?” I ask calmly, knowing from the book that I should force myself to listen, validate his emotional feelings, and not to try to fix the problem.

  “Your sister invited that horrible Mr. Wharton.”

  “Dad, she had to invite Grandpa. He’s Mom’s father.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Yes, he is. But you have to be nice to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so, that’s why,” I say in the exact tone he used to give me when I was a little girl.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to need a better reason,” Dad says, and I hear him turn on the early morning news. “And frankly, right now you’re hurting my feelings.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, not even vaguely sorry. “How about because you love your daughter, and because you’re not the parent who causes drama.”

  “Sure. Take his side,” my father says.

  “Will you take a hit of pot and calm the fuck down?!” I hear my mother chide from another room.

  “I’m not smoking any more of that stuff. I don’t trust your dealer,” my father yells back.

  I’m afraid to ask. And yet it’s like looking at a car accident, or a really bad date at the next table—you just can’t help but want to know a little more…. “Why?” I ask.

  “Why what?” my father asks back.

  “Why don’t you trust Mom’s dope dealer?”

  “Oh. Well, I went and got one of those drug tests, you know the kind that companies use to test employees before they hire them, because I wanted to know how long the pot stayed in your system, you know in case I go scuba diving—”

  “I didn’t know you had ever been scuba diving,” I interrupt.

  “I haven’t. But I’m planning a midlife crisis, and I think scuba diving should be a part of it. You know, pristine beaches, cute little girls in their bikinis, poker….”

  Before I can ask what poker has to do with scuba diving, he continues, “So I take this drug test. And what does it tell me but that I’ve tested positive for PCP!”

  I gasp. You got to hand it to my Dad—it takes a lot to get me to gasp in this family.

  “So,” he continues, “it turns out, your mother’s dealer had ‘accidentally’ laced her lid with PCP! Well, I told him a thing or two! Let me tell you, that seventy-eight-year-old woman from Venice, your mother’s old pot dealer, sure, she may have been a silly little grandmother who put stickers on her bags, and insisted you eat her brownies, which were dubious. And she may have bored you with picture after picture of her grandchildren, but you can be sure the marijuana you got from her was clean!”

  “Well then, why don’t you just go back to her?” I ask, wondering how I ended up in this conversation.

  “She died,” Dad says, like she did it just to inconvenience him. “I mean, what has the world come to when you can’t even trust your pot dealer?”

  Mom picks up the other line, and asks accusingly, “Who are you on the phone with? You should never talk about drugs on a portable phone.”

  Ah, the words of wisdom you get from your elders. It’s precious, really.

  “The DEA,” my father says. “They’re coming to get you.”

  “It’s me, Mom,” I say.

  “Hello, dear,” Mom says. “Ed, don’t you have to get ready for work?” Mom asks my fathe
r.

  I can actually hear him roll his eyes. “Fine. I love you, Charlie.”

  “Me too, Dad. Good night.”

  After he hangs up, my mom whispers, “Give me a minute to get to another room. We have to talk.”

  Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy.

  Thirty seconds later, I can hear the waterfall from the outdoor pool, so I know Mom is outside.

  “I need to talk to you about your sister,” Mom whispers urgently. “You need to have a talk with her. I told her that even though your father and I are paying for this entire wedding, she is entitled to invite whomever she wants.”

  Which, of course, in Mom language, really translates to “Run every name by me. I’m not paying two hundred dollars for a dinner for someone I can’t stand.”

  “…only now she’s invited that bitch Julia!”

  I sigh aloud. “Mom, she’s Dad’s sister.”

  “Don’t defend her!” Mom practically shouts, then begins loudly whispering, “She wishes you were dead.”

  I sigh heavily into the phone to subtly hint to my mother that I am tired of repeating the same tired point over and over again. “No. When Dad told her you were pregnant, and you guys weren’t married, she said she wished you’d have a miscarriage. Now, while that is a horrible thing to say, it is not the same thing as wishing I were dead now.”

  “Do you secretly hate me?” my mother asks accusingly. “Is this some reverse Oedipal thing where you want to marry your father and kill your mother, and that’s why you never take my side?”

  Why is it mothers always have to go to the Electra complex?

  “Mom, in the first place, no offense to you, but if I met Dad thirty years ago, I would have thought he was gay. So, no, I do not secretly want to marry Dad. And in the second place, it’s been thirty years since Julia said—”

  “You make that sound like a long time ago,” my mother says.

  Instead of pointing out the obvious:

  Don’t hold a grudge for thirty years. While you’re home stewing, the other guy’s out dancing.