A Total Waste of Makeup

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I instead try to diffuse the situation by changing the subject. “Mom, what are you doing up this early?”

  I ask this because my mother has never been out of bed before the crack of noon. Except when she’s working. And she’s a writer so, like I said, crack of noon.

  “I haven’t been to bed yet,” my mother tells me, and I hear her inhaling from her pot pipe. “Chris and I had a long conversation last night. Apparently, your boss tried to set you up with him last night, and it got him quite freaked out. We’re thinking of taking our relationship to the next level.”

  He didn’t seem freaked out at the party. But then again, he’s a yoga instructor, so maybe you can’t tell. However, speaking of freaked out, which I now am, I ask, “What next level?”

  My mother sighs audibly. “Well…your father and I have decided to live together…”

  My parents are divorced, but they’re living together. Swell.

  Mom continues, “You know, because it looks like he and Jeannine are over, and you know, he’ll need some mothering right now, and I’m such an earth mother…”

  “Right,” I say halfheartedly.

  I finish my cigarette, get out of bed, walk to my dresser, and open my cake box, where about a third of the cake still sits. (I guess the top layer of my wedding cake wouldn’t make it to the second day, either.) I take a fingerful as my mother continues.

  “So I tell Chris that your father will be living here, and he’s okay with it, but asks if he can move in, too. And I say, I just don’t know, two men under the same roof, and me with a cleaning lady only once a week, and he says…”

  Blah, blah, blah, she talks…something about Mrs. Robinson…blah, blah, blah. I can’t concentrate. I am too busy loving this cake! The top layer is this buttery yellow cake, which I don’t normally like, but it is sinful, and has this nice chocolate chip filling with vanilla.

  “So, what do you think?” Mom asks.

  Shit! She does that to me every time! And now I’ve got to bs my way through the rest of this conversation.

  Fortunately, she’s been my mother for a really long time, so I know how to do that. I smile to myself, so proud am I of my next line: “Well, Mom, in your heart you know the answer. I think it’s time you quit asking everyone else’s opinion, and just do what you know is right.”

  She’s silent. I’ve really hit home with my logic. “Of course,” she says. “Of course you’re right.”

  Yay! Home run! I should have been a therapist.

  “Would you carry the baby?” she asks earnestly.

  Huh? Wait, stay calm, think back on what she was talking about, something about Mrs. Robinson….

  “You weren’t listening to a thing I said, were you?” Mom asks dryly.

  I look down at my hardwood floors sheepishly. “I heard the part about two men and only one cleaning lady.”

  My Dad yells, “Jacquie, go to bed!” and I am saved.

  “I have to go,” Mom says. “Your father’s calling me to bed. God—never thought I’d be saying that again. I love you. We’ll talk later.”

  She hangs up. I hang up and finish off my cake.

  I pick up again to call Drew. It rings three times until I hear Drew yell, “I’m up!”

  “Wakey, wakey,” I say.

  “Five more minutes.”

  “Okay, but only five. It’s already after six, and…” He’s already hung up. “And why am I talking to myself?” I say out loud for no reason.

  I call Kate to make sure she’s okay; she lies and says she is. Then I take a quick shower, then I call Drew back.

  “I’m up!”

  “Your driver will be there in less than ten minutes. Did you kiss her?” I ask, lighting up another cigarette.

  “Yeah, but it was one of those quick pecks on the lips. Very Hollywood,” he tells me.

  “Better luck Saturday,” I say.

  “I hope so,” he says. “Promise me you’ll get her good and liquored up.”

  “Only if you promise me you’ll get Doug good and liquored up.”

  “Deal,” he says, then hangs up.

  Well, at least it’s Friday.

  On the way to work, my phone rings, and I see from the caller ID it’s my sister Andy.

  I pick up anyway, adjusting my headset so I now look like someone who talks to herself in the car.

  “Hi, Andy,” I say, suppressing a yawn.

  “I hate our family. They’re a bunch of nutcases,” Andy says, nearly in tears.

  “What, now? You’re just figuring that out now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know why we’re going to play Mendelsohn’s wedding march when I walk down the aisle. Why don’t I just have the theme to the Addams Family?”

  That’s a good question, actually.

  “Dad says he’s not coming to the rehearsal dinner if Grandpa comes,” Andy continues, “and Mom says if she sees Julia she’s going to punch her lights out. Can you talk to them? Please?”

  “All right. I’ll talk to them. Go have a normal day, and try not to think about it,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.

  We talk for another minute, and I hang up just as I get to the studio.

  Today they are shooting the big finale. You know, where the guy gets the girl, and everything’s a happy ending. Which reminds me: I pull out my notebook and scratch down:

  Make sure most of the movies you see have happy endings.

  Yeah—I know. I’m such a commoner. I don’t care. Life can be depressing enough without paying ten bucks to see even more sadness. I mean, let’s be honest, how many times have you seen Citizen Kane? How many times have you seen When Harry Met Sally?

  So, you see my point.

  Do you still rent movies in the 22nd century? If so, rent When Harry Met Sally, Auntie Mame, and His Girl Friday. You can then rent Fight Club (which is an awesome movie, but depressing), but you must follow it up with a Cary Grant comedy such as Mr. Blandings Builds His Dreamhouse or I Was a Male War Bride. Enjoy!

  About time I start giving the girl some practical advice.

  I walk around the set, and think of the scene they’re shooting today. Drew plays a detective who has to bring a beautiful fugitive (played by his costar, the gorgeous Heather Crowe), across the country for her trial. It’s a screwball romantic comedy, with a really happy ending.

  As the other members of the crew begin pulling cables, setting up cameras, and lighting the set, I walk over to the fake jail cell. For some reason, even though I got a nice kiss from Doug last night, I’m still thinking of Jordan. Not that he’d give me the time of day. But I imagine myself as the beautiful convict, handcuffed to Jordan, the tough but sweet detective, and he kisses me through the cell, and…

  Mmmmm, I sigh to myself, dreaming of that kiss. See, this is why we go to movies. If you ever kissed someone handcuffed to you in real life, it would be kinky.

  I turn around and head over to Craft Service to get cappuccinos. At seven o’clock exactly, I open the door to Drew’s trailer—and nearly choke on all the smoke billowing out. It looks like Spicoli’s van in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I sniff. Nope, not marijuana. More like flowers.

  Bracing myself, I walk in to see Drew has redecorated his trailer again, this time in an Indian motif. His new couches are done in jewel-toned silks of dark red and dark green, with delicate gold embroidery sewn in geometric patterns throughout. Candles and incense burn everywhere (hence the smoke), and sitar music is piped in from…I still can’t find any speakers.

  I look around at the newest decorations—elephant heads. Not the whole elephant, mind you. Just the head. An elephant head on a human body, sitting in meditation position. An elephant head with six human arms and legs. Five elephant heads on eight arms and legs. An elephant on a giant…rat?! I move closer to a pewter elephant incense burner to get a better look.

  “Ganesh,” Drew says to me.

  I turn around to see Drew lying on his new couch, making some sort of guttural noise. I’m not sure if he’s chan
ting, or trying to sound a mating call to a female elephant. Please God, let it be chanting. “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Ganesh,” he repeats.

  “Gesundheit,” I respond.

  Drew opens his eyes, and sits up. He starts talking to me like a three-year-old describing the latest episode of Blue’s Clues. “I was watching the most amazing program last night after you went home. It was all about Ganesh, the Hindu god of India. The more I heard about it, the more I realized, I’m destined to be Hindu.”

  I furrow my brow. “What happened to becoming a kahuna?” I ask.

  Drew waves his hand at me as if to say pshaw. “That wasn’t for me. It turns out you have to do years of intense studying to become a kahuna. I’m not a student, I’m a movie star. But this…you’re born into it. So I’ve decided I must have been born a Hindu, I just didn’t know it since I was born in Rhode Island.”

  I try to keep from visibly shaking my head. “Drew, the Hindu religion is very complicated, you can’t just…”

  Drew jumps up from the couch and hands me what looks a stone elephant doing yoga. “This is Ganesh,” he says, as though he’s introducing me to his new puppy.

  “Nice to meet you, Ganesh,” I say sarcastically.

  Drew looks at me with complete sincerity. “According to the host of this program, the world is not created in the way we Westerners think of when we think of the word creation. It exists, but does not exist. It is only a relative reality, an illusion that we think of as truth, but that might not be truth. We are the product of Maya—the power of illusion.”

  He stares at me, eyes wide open, slowly bobbing his head up and down, like he’s just told me the meaning of life. I look back at him, nonplussed. “Okeydokey. Well, it’s good you have a hobby. You want to go over your weekend schedule?”

  I can tell from the way he’s looking at me, that wasn’t the response he was going for. But he shrugs and says, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

  I hand him his cappuccino, and go over his schedule for the weekend.

  I stare at a printout of his schedule, and take a sip of my cappuccino. “All right. We start with an eight A.M. jog with your trainer—”

  “Whoa. Way too early,” Drew states emphatically as he sips his cappuccino. “Cancel that.”

  “Followed by free weights at nine…,” I continue.

  “Cancel that,” Drew says, nodding.

  “Then yoga with Chris at ten…”

  “Cancel that, but tell him it has nothing to do with him rejecting you last night.” Drew takes another sip of his cappuccino, and scrunches up his lips in disgust. “Does this have sugar in it?”

  “No. Equal,” I say. “Which brings us to your eleven o’clock appointment with your nutritionist…”

  “Yeah. Cancel that. That guy’s diet is too strict. Find me someone who allows sugar in my coffee, bacon for breakfast, and a nice glass of scotch at night.”

  I sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing. You specifically told me to force you to stay on this diet until you lost, and I quote, ‘these goddamn eight pounds.’”

  “Yeah, I know. So you’ll get rid of him?” Drew asks, switching cappuccinos with me (mine has sugar in it).

  I shake my head. “You said that no matter what you told me, that I absolutely, positively had to make sure you went to this appointment, or you would fire me.”

  Drew rolls his eyes. “Look, sweetie, I love you. But if I wanted a woman to hold me to everything I said, I’d still be married.”

  “So you’re sure you want me to cancel the appointment?” I ask.

  “I’m sure,” Drew promises me.

  “Fine.” I make a note on my pad, but the truth is, I cancelled the appointment last week. “Therapy from twelve to two…”

  “Oh, good.” Drew says, pulling out a pen and writing it down. “I can talk about Dawn.”

  “Hospital visit for Make a Wish at three…”

  “Got it.”

  “And then you have a meeting at five with some guy named Robert Browne from Maxim magazine. Your publicist arranged it.”

  “Oh, shit!” Drew yells. “Blow Me!”

  I look over my notes. “Is he some interviewer? I don’t have him on my computer.”

  “No, he’s one of the editors. I totally forgot. I need you to write my ‘Blow Me’ list.”

  I stare at him blankly. He returns my stare with an expectant smile. After several moments of confusion, I finally manage to stammer out, “To say that I am disturbed by the sound of that really is an understatement.”

  “It’s for Maxim magazine,” Drew informs me. “They’re having celebrities write a ‘Blow Me List,’ which is basically a list of things that make you want to say, ‘Blow Me.’ I need you to write it for me.”

  “Why can’t you write it?” I ask.

  “I’m not very good at hating things. My life is so charmed,” Drew says with not the least bit of irony in his voice. “But you’re always complaining about something. And you’re so much funnier than I am.”

  I blink at him several times. He just keeps smiling at me. “Don’t we know a writer who can do this?” I finally manage to ask.

  “No. I’m supposed to write it,” Drew insists. “Which means you have to write it.”

  Okay, how do I say no without getting fired? I have to be tactful and diplomatic. Let him know how much I treasure my job, and how important it is to me. “Are you out of your fucking tree?!” I blurt out.

  “Oh, come on,” Drew says, waving me off. “Look, to show my appreciation, I’ll get you a limo for your Girls’ Night tomorrow.”

  “The night that you invited yourself to?!” I whine. I’m trying not to whine, but I can’t help it. When I get upset, I sound like Minnie Mouse, just like my sister.

  “And I’ll pay you a thousand dollars, cash,” he offers.

  “How many words do you need it to be?” I answer immediately.

  Hey, I’m not stupid.

  “No word count—just a top ten list,” Drew says. He wins. He always wins.

  “Write me fifteen or so, and I’ll pick my favorites.”

  Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.

  I hate Drew for this. I spend the next four hours in Drew’s director’s chair, on set, coming up with a “Blow Me” list.

  1. Men who don’t call.

  I cross that off.

  1. Sixteen-year-olds trying to sell you wrinkle cream at Bloomingdales.

  I cross that off.

  1. Hillary Clinton.

  Maybe.

  And, as I’m thinking about people who don’t call, the phone rings (or I should say vibrates, as we’re on the set, and no cell phones, pagers, or anything with sound is allowed on a set).

  I see it’s Andy, so I run off the set and call her right back.

  As I walk onto the set of the exterior of a Manhattan street, Andy picks up. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. What’s up?”

  “Mom and Dad just faxed Hunter and me a seating chart for our wedding.”

  Uh-oh. I wince. “Did you ask them to do that?”

  “Are you upset your younger sister’s getting married before you?” Andy asks me back.

  Ouch. “Well,” I begin, preparing to give an upbeat answer, when Andy interrupts, “I’m just asking, since apparently it’s ‘Ask a stupid question’ day!”

  Double ouch. As I pass the fake Zabars, I remind her, “You know, I’m one of the only people on your side here. You should be nice to me.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe everyone’s making this so awful for me. This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and instead I just want to get it over with. Do you know Hunter’s mother just added fifty more guests to our list, and Hunter won’t tell her no? And now I get this stupid seating chart…”

  “How bad is it?” I ask warily.

  “Well, Dad wrote the name ‘your dumb-ass grandfather’ on the seating chart with a big arrow pointing to the top of the page, pointing to the word Canada….”<
br />
  I rub my right palm into my right eye, feeling a headache coming on. “Where did Mom put Julia?”

  “Next to an arrow at the bottom of the page, pointing to the words six feet under. Look, are you busy tonight? I really need you to come to Mom’s house so we can sort everything out.”

  “I guess I can do that,” I tell her, only because I can’t think of a good excuse not to. “But if you’re going to ask them for more money for more guests, wouldn’t you rather do it without an audience?”

  “Are you okay turning thirty without a boyfriend, or is your career enough to sustain you into old age?” she counters.

  “Will seven o’clock be okay?” I ask immediately, dreading whatever her next “stupid question” would be.

  “Divine. I’ll see you then. Love you. Bye,” Andy says, and clicks off.

  “Love you, too,” I say, and head back to the set.

  I hate her. I really do.

  Nine

  Everything happens for a reason.

  I’m not quite sure what possible reason the universe could have for me to write a “Blow Me” list. But, nonetheless, two hours later, Drew and I are back in his trailer, going over it.

  As he sits on his new silk couch, sipping his seventh cup of coffee of the day, I read from my clipboard. “Okay,” I begin. “Number one. Sylvester Stallone, Ben Affleck, and any other actor who’s won an Academy Award for writing.”

  “I can’t say that,” Drew says, shaking his head.

  “Why?”

  “I like Ben. Besides, what if I decide to write a screenplay someday? Then no one at the Academy would vote for me.”

  A screenplay?! He can’t even write a “Blow Me” list! But instead of pointing out the obvious, I scratch it out, and we move on. “Number one. Anyone who calls you ‘Sir.’”

  “Why would I hate that?” Drew asks.

  “Because it implies you’re old,” I say.

  “No, it doesn’t. It implies the person respects me.”

  “Because you’re old,” I counter. But I see his point, and cross it off. “Somehow, it works better as people who call me ‘ma’am,’” I tell him. “All right. Number one. Martha Stewart.”