About five minutes later, I stand up on the stage, slightly tipsy, desperate for a cigarette, all eyes on me. Everyone probably thought I’d spent days writing and rewriting my speech for two hundred people.
So I do what great orators have done for centuries.
I wing it.
I stare at my champagne glass. “The moment I knew that Andy had found her true love was at her bachelorette party,” I begin.
There are titters from the audience, and Andy looks at me, wide-eyed and petrified. I laugh with the titters. “Now, now…contrary to what you might hear about bachelorette parties, most of them are quite tame. No, what I was going to talk about was Andy’s choice of lingerie for one of her last nights as a free woman. She had stolen one of Hunter’s T-shirts to wear with her flannel pajama bottoms.”
I raise my glass for the toast. “Here’s to finally finding the one whose T-shirts you want to steal for the rest of your life.”
Everyone clinks their glasses, applause, applause, applause, and I am done for the night.
A few minutes after the toast, I take my glass of champagne and sneak outside for a breath of fresh air.
That’s a total lie. I need a cigarette.
After tracking the wedding coordinator down and bumming a Marlboro and a light from her, I head toward the lake and away from the loud party.
I light up. Aaaahhhhhhh…
I can feel a slight chill on my shoulders as I walk around the grounds, dreaming of the day when I get to wear the white dress and be the center of attention and get all the free champagne flutes and fifty-dollar checks.
I finish my cigarette, stub it out in a discreetly placed ashtray, then start to walk back toward the reception.
On my way, I see Mawv sitting on a bench in a gazebo near the lobby, all by herself, also sneaking a cigarette.
“You know, those things’ll kill you,” I say as I walk up to her.
“Not soon enough, dear,” Mawv tells me, and takes a slow puff, exhaling small cigarette donuts.
I take the bench across from her.
Mawv’s glassy eyes seem to stare into space, even though she’s looking right at me.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I say.
“How about a kiss?” Mawv says, smiling.
I smile, and kiss her on the cheek. She smells of Chanel No. 5 and baby powder.
“I was just thinking that in my day, a woman defined herself by whether or not a man loved her enough to marry her. Then we had women’s lib, and you all went to college, and you got jobs, and you worked your butts off so you could buy your own houses, and have sex with whomever you wanted. And you want to know where it’s gotten you?” Mawv asks.
I shake my head, smiling the way you do when you talk to really old people.
“A woman now defines herself by whether or not a man loves her enough to marry her.”
I’m not saying I totally agree with her, but there’s something to be said for what comes with the wisdom of age.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Mawv says, and quickly pulls a Winston from her silver cigarette case. “You want one?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” I say, taking the cigarette greedily.
She hands me her sterling silver lighter, and I light up, enjoying the second cigarette I’ve had in five minutes.
“The grandkids are in the back, sneaking pot, if you want to go there instead,” she tells me.
“Nah, I’ll stick to the legal stuff.”
Mawv smiles a grandmotherly smile and pats me on the knee lightly. “Good girl.”
We silently smoke our cigarettes while listening to the wedding music drift from the ballroom.
“Whatcha thinking about now?” I ask.
“I was actually thinking about you, dear,” Mawv tells me.
“Oh?” I say, surprised.
“I worry you’re sad it’s not your day today.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie. “My day will come.”
Again, she smiles and pats me on the knee. “I’ll bet you don’t remember your cousin Jenn’s Charlie’s Angels baseball cards.”
“Can’t say as I do,” I admit. “I’m notoriously bad about sports.”
Mawv laughs at that. “No, no. When your cousin Jenn was about five, she loved this TV show called Charlie’s Angels. You know, before it was a movie.”
I nod. “I know. I’ve seen the reruns.”
“Nice little show. Of course, it was on at ten o’clock back then, and even in 1976 I was old, so I didn’t watch it much, because I went to bed early.”
I nod, already worried she’s about to go off on a tangent.
“Baretta was on before that, and I didn’t like him, even before he killed his wife. I did like that Carol Burnett Show, though. She’s such a funny woman….”
“Mawv,” I say gently, patting her knee.
“That Lyle Waggoner was such a handsome fellow. Very pleasant on the eyes. You know, he was on Wonder Woman, too…”
“Okay, Mawv…”
“That was the show with that actress whose husband was accused of stealing all that money….”
“And we’re back to the baseball cards,” I remind her.
Listen to your elders’ stories. They have a lot to teach you.
“Yes. Baseball cards,” Mawv continues. “Your cousin wanted all the Charlie’s Angels cards. They were like baseball cards, and each had a picture from the show on one side. Then, on the other side of the card, instead of statistics, there was a picture that was a piece of a puzzle. If you collected all the cards, you could make a picture of the Angels on a beautiful beach in Hawaii.”
I continue to nod politely, but honestly I don’t know what this has to do with me.
“Anyway,” Mawv continues, “Jenn collected all of the cards—except for one. Her mother must have bought her fifty packs of bubble gum just to get this one card, but she never got it. So, her puzzle was always missing Jaclyn Smith’s hat.”
“Hmm,” I say, figuring the story was over.
And pointless.
Suddenly, Mawv gets more animated, and more desperate to make her point. “But it was just one piece of the puzzle. Do you understand?”
“I do,” I say, lying.
Mawv sighs and shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”
And then she gets me with a zinger. “I worry about you because you have a good life. And you spend too much of it sad that you don’t have Jaclyn Smith’s hat.”
Ouch.
I wish I could assure her that that’s not the case. But I can’t. Because it’s true.
For the next minute or two, we smoke our cigarettes in silence, listening to the sounds of an early Beatles tune coming from the ballroom.
Suddenly, my mother comes running out of the ballroom. “Charlie?!” she screams across the courtyard. “Where are you?! Your sister’s about to throw the bouquet!”
I roll my eyes, and Mawv bursts out laughing.
Reluctantly, Mawv and I head back to the ballroom, and over to the center of the dance floor, where all of the single girls huddle in a pack near Andy.
I stand between Kate and Dawn. “Well, girls, time for the most humiliating part of the evening.”
“Why do you say that?” Kate says, totally excited. “This is my favorite part. You know, I’ve caught the bouquet three times.”
Dawn shakes her head. “That just says so much.”
As Andy makes a big show of turning around so as not to see anyone, Dawn leans into me and whispers, “Hey, can you do me a little favor later?”
“Sure. You want me to make myself scarce tonight?” I ask, because, let’s face it, who wants to be in an insanely romantic hotel room with your best friend next door listening to your every smooch.
“Not exactly,” Dawn says, and she starts chewing her cuticles, which is her one nervous habit in the world.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, slightly concerned.
“Well, it’s Drew. See, we’ve kind of hit that
point of, you know, fish or cut bait.”
I stare at her blankly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we haven’t slept together.”
“You haven’t…” I say loudly, then catch myself. I lower my voice to a whisper. “You haven’t…”
“No, and tonight’s kind of the night,” Dawn says. “So I’m going to break up with him.”
She’s what? I stare at her in astonishment as—
Bam! The bouquet hits me right in the face.
“Shit!” I scream, but I’m drowned out by the yells of disappointment from Kate and the other girls, and applause from the wedding guests.
I touch my cheek lightly with my finger. “I’m bleeding,” I say to my sister. “What the hell’s in this bouquet?”
“Just roses and lilies,” Andy says, then walks up to check it as I grab a linen napkin and put it up to my face. “Ooh, it looks like a thorn hit you.”
“Because, you know what they say,” Dawn enlightens us:
A rose by any other name still has thorns.
I glare at both of them as we get off the dance floor to make way for the single men and the garter toss.
Yeah, here’s another fun tradition.
The first time Hunter throws the garter, it falls about five feet short of the group of bachelors, and not one guy walks over to pick it up.
Swell.
The next time, it’s caught by a twelve-year-old, whom I get to dance with. Finally, my prince has come.
The second the song is over, I race over to Table 9, grab Dawn, and tell her she needs to join me in the ladies’ room. All jokes aside, I need to get her alone, so I can find out what’s going on with Drew.
Because, you know what they say:
If you can’t get laid at a wedding—go into a monastery.
Note to self: Call monastery Monday morning. Book “get to know” meeting for Drew.
Thirty-Four
You don’t choose love, love chooses you.
Once Dawn and I get to the ladies’ room, I try to be the understanding friend that everyone deserves during a painful breakup.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” I yell at Dawn. “You’re going to break up with my boss at a wedding?!”
I said I try to be an understanding friend.
“I know,” Dawn says, pulling a lipstick from her purse and applying it in the mirror. “I picked a bad time, and I’m sorry about that. But there really never is a good time to break up.”
Kate charges in. “Did I hear right?” she says to Dawn. “You’re breaking up with the Sexiest Man Alive?”
“No. I’m breaking up with Drew,” Dawn says, now irritated. “If Denzel calls, I’m open.”
I stare at them, speechless.
Dawn finishes with her lipstick and hands it to Kate, who applies some in the mirror. “You’re nuts,” Kate says. “The guy’s gorgeous.”
“Do you want him?” Dawn asks.
Kate hands back the lipstick. “Actually, no. I kind of like this fuckbuddy thing I got going with Jamie.”
Ewwww…
“Please don’t refer to my brother as a ‘fuckbuddy,’” I say to Kate. “It’s going to take three more cocktails just to get that visual out of my head.” I turn to Dawn, who puts away her lipstick and pulls out a powder compact. “I don’t get it. You like him. What did he do wrong?”
“He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just not working out,” Dawn says apologetically. She puts on some powder, staring at her reflection in the mirror, consciously not looking at me.
Dawn finally looks my way. I guess I must be looking like a kicked puppy, because she seems genuinely upset to be hurting me. “It’s just not working out,” Dawn says, putting away her compact. “I mean, I’m at this incredibly romantic wedding watching people recite their vows, and I know he’s not the one. So, rather than getting all depressed about it, I think it’s better for all concerned if we just call it a day, so to speak.”
I blow out a big sigh. I hate it when she’s being reasonable. “Okay, fine. But do you have to break up tonight? I mean, have a heart. And why do I have to be here for it?”
“It has to be tonight because he’s expecting sex, and I don’t want him in that way. I tried, but I ain’t feelin’ it. And you have to be here because he’s going to get all depressed afterwards, and you’re his friend and you should be here for him.”
And I hate it when she’s being logical. Logical and reasonable. Goddamn her. We spend the next few minutes arguing, but I already know I’ve lost.
And when the wedding is over, I say my good-byes to everyone, tell Drew and Dawn I’ll be back in the room at one o’clock, and head for the bar, knowing Drew will be calling me any minute.
Thirty-Five
It’s the friends you can call up at 4 am that matter.—Marlene Dietrich
Thirty minutes later, my cell phone rings. I check the caller ID. “Hi, Drew.”
“Where are you?” he asks.
“The hotel bar.”
“Any photographers there? How’s the lighting? Is it a place to be seen?”
“No, the lighting’s fine, and no.”
“Are there any women there?” he asks.
I look around. I’m the only woman here under forty. “A few,” I say.
“Good. Pick one for me, and bring her to my room.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow morning, on top of dealing with a hangover and a breakup, you don’t need to be dealing with a starfucker.”
The older couple at the table next to me turns around to glare. I smile back at them.
“I suppose that’s a good point,” Drew concedes. “Okay, call my driver. I know a pretty good strip club we can go to….”
“How about if I just come back to the room, and we’ll talk?” I suggest.
“Talk? Why?”
“Because you’re upset,” I point out.
“I’m fine,” Drew insists, shrugging me off with his tone of voice. “You know what they say—best way to get over someone is to get under someone. Now, who do we know that’s cute and available this time of night?”
“Me,” I say, sighing. “So I’ll be right over.”
“Really?” Drew says, audibly perking up.
“I’m kidding. I’ll see you in a minute.”
I hang up, pay the check, and make my way back to amazing Room 150, and knock on the door. Drew opens it. “You think Paris Hilton is available?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Check your Pay-Per-View schedule.”
He steps aside so that I can walk into the most romantic and decadent hotel room on the planet, designed to make even Queen Elizabeth want to do the horizontal mambo. So, naturally, a woman dumped him here.
As I walk in, Drew points to the coffee table, where I see a big box beautifully wrapped in glittery silver paper. “I got a wedding present for you,” he says offhandedly.
“You mean to give to Andy?” I ask, confused.
“No. I mean for you.” He walks to the table, picks up the box, and hands it to me. “I got it for you earlier tonight.”
I carefully unwrap the present to see a bright red Baccarat box. Inside the box are two baccarat champagne flutes and a card. As I open the card, a check for fifty dollars falls out—signed by Drew. And he signed the card with my favorite new mantra, and one that will soon go into my journal of advice:
You needn’t be married to drink champagne.
Love, Drew
“I love it,” I say.
“Good. At least I made one woman happy tonight.”
There’s a bottle of Dom Pérignon, unopened, in a silver cooler next to the couch. He gives the cork a quick pop, and pours champagne into my new glasses.
We sit on the green sofa and clink our glasses in a toast.
Drew toasts, “Here’s to finding someone who doesn’t make us completely nuts.”
We exchange sympathetic smiles. I rub his s
houlder and ask, “What happened?”
He shrugs. “We were making out, and then she didn’t want to go any further. And she looked so sad. She wants to like me in that way. But I’m not the one.”
He shrugs. “We have a good time together. She wants me to be the one. But, you know, whatever…”
His voice trails off and he takes a sip of champagne.
I rub his shoulder. “You’re gonna find someone,” I say.
“Oh, sweetie, please let’s not do the ‘you’re gonna find someone’ speech,” Drew says, turning on the TV.
“Okay,” I say. “What speech do you want?”
Drew flips through the channels, settling on an old golf game. “How about the ‘I won’t say one more word about dating tonight. Let’s watch ESPN in our pajamas instead’ speech?”
When men say they don’t want to talk about it, what they really mean is—they don’t want to talk about it.
“I’ll go get my pajamas,” I say quietly, heading to the smaller bedroom.
I walk to the doorway, then turn around. I look at the back of Drew’s head as he watches the old golf game. You know, for all his nuttiness, and all the times I want to wring his neck, I sure have a soft spot for him. He’s one of the most good-hearted people I’ve ever met, and he deserves a soul mate just as much as the rest of us.
“I really like my champagne flutes,” I squeak out quietly, trying to get him into a conversation.
“Good,” Drew says, not turning his head from the game. “Next time we go to London, we should get you some china to go with them.”
I’m silent for a while as I try to think of something else to say. Something that would make him feel better. Something like he deserves better than this, or that some day his princess will come, or that he doesn’t need Jaclyn Smith’s hat.
Instead, I go with an old standby. “I hear Jennifer Lopez might be available again.”
Drew turns his head around slowly, grinning. “Really?”
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 31
