by Lucy Kevin
My ears picked up right away, of course. I mean, who calls someone they’ve never met sweet pumpkin? Who even calls someone they do know sweet pumpkin? Plus, he referred to himself by his own name, and it definitely took someone with a whole lot of nerve to pull that off.
“Hey Jerry. Thanks for calling the Georgia Fulton show. What have you got to tell me?”
I was still thinking it was sort of cute that he obviously liked me so much he had given me a pet name, until he said, “My little grape-leaf, all women are whores.”
He definitely got my attention with that. It was the most random statement anyone had ever made to me, on or off the radio. Besides, hadn’t I been a sweet pumpkin just a second ago? Evidently I had already transmogrified into a grape-leaf.
“You know, Jerry, we’re talking about parking tickets, so I can’t help but wonder what the heck you’re talking about!”
“Georgia.” He drawled out my name in his pervert-o voice. “You, of all people should know about whores.”
I was momentarily shocked. Not because I had any whoring in my past, of course, apart from that one weird little lap dance with Kyle, which I was sure no one but Diane and Seth could possible know about.
No, I was shocked because it sounded like I might actually have my first stalker.
I know this may sound strange, but I was thrilled. It was so exciting to think that I, Georgia Fulton, new radiostress extraordinaire had a potential stalker.
I mean, someone who sucked at talk radio couldn’t have a stalker could she? Stalkers were always reserved for stars.
Even so, I was torn. I wondered if I should I egg him on for the pleasure of my listeners or if I should be an Intelligent Young Woman (say it three times fast in my mother’s voice and you’ll get my exact drift) and shut him down before he got too scary.
After the barest amount of deliberation, in the name of good radio, I chose to encourage him. What else could I do?
“How can you say such a thing Jerry?” I injected my voice with just the right amount of playfulness. “We’ve never even met.”
He laughed sadistically. “Sugar-apple, I can tell by the way you smack your lips together. Everyone can tell that you are a whore.”
I played along. “And here I thought it was my little secret.”
He ignored my humor. “Whores have no secrets, do they, peach-press?”
I was dying there in the studio, trying so hard not to laugh at all of the weird names he was calling me. I didn’t want him to hang up yet–after all, this was the stuff that hit talk shows were made of-and I thought he might if I didn’t act like I was taking him seriously. Plus, I was immensely curious to see how many more fruit-inspired names he could come up with.
As I had expected, some of my listener’s ears had perked up during our freaky banter. All of the previously blank call-lights went red.
“Jerry, can you hold on the line here? I think we have some people who want to talk you.” I pressed line two and conferenced the second caller in.
“Hi. You’re on the air with Georgia Fulton. I take it you’ve got something to say to Jerry?”
“I sure do!” spit out a very angry female. “That guy who called in is one sick bastard!” she exclaimed fervently.
“Thank you.” Jerry sounded quite pleased.
I could just about hear the female caller fuming through the phone lines. “I just want to tell Jerry that if me and my girlfriends are ever out somewhere and I hear your disgusting voice, I am going to have them hold you down so that I can personally castrate you.”
“See,” Jerry said. “All you can think about is my penis.”
Now, I still hadn’t forgotten about my FCC classes. Swearing on the radio was a big no-no. And while Howard Stern seemed to get away with it, or at least was willing to pay the fines, I wasn’t so sure that I would fare quite so well. I hated to cut my callers off when they were just getting going, but I had no other options, since I could never seem to get to the bleep-out button on time.
“Thanks for the calls, you two,” I said, hanging up on both callers. Before picking up another line, I added, “I know there are lots of you out there who have something to say about Jerry’s statement, but you have to promise me you’re going to keep it clean, okay?” I laughed at my pun. “Of course, don’t you dare leave out any of the nasty details, just the nasty words.”
“Now,” I said, getting down to business, “let me make it perfectly clear that I completely disagree with Jerry.” I paused to collect my thoughts. “Frankly, I’m not even sure I understand the concept of being a whore. Someone needs to tell me what the word even means. If a woman enjoys sex, is she a whore? Or is she just in touch with her sexuality? So, let’s change gears. Who cares about parking tickets anyway? If you’ve got something to say about female sexuality, let’s hear it.”
For the next two hours, I heard a gamut of opinions.
From the Bible thumpers: “Anyone who goes against God’s will is a whore.”
Wow, thanks for that piece of news.
From the ultra-feminists: “The word whore has been created to keep women in a subservient role, so that males can dominate everything about us, including our vaginas.”
I had never thought about my vagina being dominated before. It sounded kind of exciting.
From the cuckolded-men: “My girlfriend cheated on me with, like, half of the soccer team. She’s the definition of a whore.”
Sorry, buddy. Tough break. Did you suck in the sack, or something?
From the cuckolding women: “I totally cheated on my last boyfriend. But I swear to god, he sucked in bed and I had to do something to get myself off. This means I’m not a whore, I’m just horny.”
See, I told you he sucked in the sack.
*
Thanks in large part to freakazoid Jerry and all of the emotions he stirred up, my show started to causing a big stir on campus. I overheard people talking about it at the coffee house, or out on the lawn. Someone from the school paper even called me up to set up an interview. I felt like a celebrity. I even got some fan emails at the station.
“Georgia, you rock and everybody should sit at their desks for class to begin.”
“Your show is really fantastic. I’m gushing. Somebody slap me.”
My insides were still more than a little messed up from the whole Kyle fiasco, but my talk radio show was the perfect medicine and most of the time—when I wasn’t feeling undesirable and unsexy—I was floating on top of the world.
I felt like I had finally found my place, amongst those who could appreciate me for the girl I truly was, like my life finally had a purpose: To get people to say what they really thought, no matter what. And of course, along the way, I would get to shoot off my big mouth to no end.
And what could be better than that?
Except for finding true love.
I know, I shouldn’t have been holding my breath, waiting for it to smack me across the face, but the romantic in me couldn’t help it.
The romantic in me had some lessons to learn.
STEVE
Junior year at UW ended and due to some hard work I had put into applying for radio internships, I was going to be spending the summer working days at the Harborside talk radio station, XTRA. I was really, really thrilled about finally getting to see the inside workings of a commercial radio station.
Early Sunday morning, the day before I started the internship, Diane and Seth slammed open the door to my bedroom.
“Rise and shine, Cinderella,” Seth cooed.
I groaned and buried my head under the covers. “Go away,” I said, my words muffled by down.
“Not until you’re bee-ooo-ti-ful,” Seth said as he plopped down on the side of my bed, landing on my thigh.
“Ow,” I said, scooting out from under him, peeking my head out from under the duvet to see why I had been singled out for torture on the last day I had to sleep in.
Diane had my closet open and was in the process of fling
ing pretty much everything that had once been on a hanger onto the floor. “Yuck, ick, ugly, horrible,” she was muttering as each garment passed through her hands.
“Hey!” I said, sitting up in bed. “I’ve got to wear that stuff this week. You’re getting everything wrinkled.”
Seth looked at me with pity. “Girl, you are most definitely not going to work wearing those clothes.”
It was too early in the morning for this. “I’m not?” was the best I could do without another three hours of sleep or, at the very least, some caffeine.
“We’re having a let’s-make-Georgia-gorgeous day,” Diane explained, without bothering to turn around.
“And it’s about time,” Seth said fervently.
Feeling more than a little hurt, I mumbled, “I didn’t realize I had been such a dog all this time.”
“Oh honey,” Seth said, giving me a hug, “that’s not how we mean it.”
“Uh huh,” I said doubtfully, not convinced that this day was going to amount to anything less than extreme torture. Still helplessly trying to defend myself I said, “I thought my clothes had gotten better since I’d started buying them for myself.”
Diane said, “Just because something is better doesn’t mean it’s good. You’re still tainted by your years of shopping with you-know-who.”
Seth’s eyes alit with questions. “Another mommy dearest story?”
I nodded as Diane said, “Georgia was a total fashion victim in high school.” Pausing for effect, she added, “Her mother bought all her clothes for her.”
“Oh no,” Seth said in a low and horrified voice.
“Oh yes,” I said, sitting up against the headboard, thinking back to my not-so-glorious teenage years. “I didn’t even know that girls went to the mall together. I thought everyone went with her mom.”
“Which would have been okay if her mother had had a whit of fashion sense,” Diane put in.
“I was the only one who showed up to school in ankle length skirts and silk blouses.”
Seth patted my hand. “You poor, poor thing. I can’t believe you’re not more of a mess.”
“It’s hard to care about whether something looks good or not when you’re desperate to get it on sale,” I explained. “She Who Birthed Me can’t resist a sales rack. I swear to god I don’t think my mother has ever paid full-price for anything.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Wow,” Seth breathed, impressed despite himself.
“By the time our painful shopping expeditions had come to an end, I’d have a bag full of clothes that looked an awful lot like what was in her closet.”
“Awful is such an accurate word,” Diane said as she held up a green and blue striped blouse for examination. “So last year,” was her ultimate decision as she added it to the heap of cast-offs on my bedroom floor.
Totally on a roll by now, I said, “Plus since she was always worried that I would gain weight and then things wouldn’t fit anymore, she always bought my clothes a size too big. Just in case.”
“When have you ever gained weight?” Seth asked. “It’s one of the things I hate about you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You could tell it to the mom, but she won’t be listening. She spends most of her day thinking about ways to get me to a weight watchers meeting.”
“You’ve got curves,” Seth said, defending me against a woman who wasn’t even in the room with us.
I’ll have you know that I wasn’t exaggerating about any of this. It wasn’t until I got a part-time job mid-way through high school that I started shopping for clothes for myself. But you know how it is: What we’ve learned is hard to forget, even when we’re suddenly put in charge of our own destiny.
For years I continued to spend good money on middle aged, too big clothes for myself. The first time I bought something for full price that actually fit right was a great moment—I can still remember the sense of victory that I felt.
It was as if I had reclaimed myself in the face of great odds. But evidently, none of that was good enough for Diane and Seth, since all of my hard-won purchases had found their way to the trash heap.
“My mother has never commented on what I look like,” Diane said out of the blue.
“God you’re lucky,” I exhaled.
“Never?” Seth asked.
“Never.”
He obviously couldn’t believe it. “She’s never said, ‘I love your dress,’ or ‘You’re so pretty,’ or even, ‘Take off all that makeup you little slut?’”
Diane’s eyes went opaque. “I could have walked out of my house buck naked and she wouldn’t have noticed.” And then, just as quickly as she had brought it up, she dropped it. Looking at her watch, Diane said, “We’ve got ten minutes to get you to the spa.”
“The spa?”
My sparkling, quick wit had obviously left the building if two word sentences were the best I could do. But that very well might have been because I’d heard what went on at the day spa that Diane worked at and every last one of the “beauty treatments” they gave sounded painful.
“My treat,” she said.
Not wanting to be ungrateful, in a very small voice, with a very small smile, I said, “Oh goodie.”
*
It wasn’t until Diane and Seth escorted me through the shiny glass doors and into the spa lobby that I finally grasped just how much pain and suffering I was in for.
Lots and lots to be exact.
“Take off your clothes,” Diane said, “and Jill and Jane will be right in.”
“All of my clothes?” I said with extreme trepidation.
“All of them.” Blowing me a kiss she added, “Have fun!”
So there I lay, naked as a newborn under the bright lights, examining the hot pink room with growing dismay. I couldn’t help but squirm, feeling like I was up on an ‘operating’ table. How was it that intelligent women willingly spent their hard earned money in places like this? Was it just another piece in the anything-to-attract-a-man puzzle?
So what if my eyebrows didn’t arch just right? Was there someone out there who actually cared?
Okay, so I already knew the answer to that. My mom probably cared. A whole lot.
But wasn’t that simply because she thought that men cared? And hadn’t that one caller made it pretty damn clear that men didn’t really care after all?
Oh yeah, and that men only wanted a wet hole to sink into.
In any case, I was absolutely certain that my mother was going to be thrilled to death with this makeover.
Another good reason to leave while I still could.
But I knew it was no use. Seth and Diane thought they were doing me a favor and I didn’t want to be an unappreciative friend. So I was just going to have to suck it up and deal.
Two giggling women swung open the door and swept into the room. Jane and Jill I assumed. Without so much as a hello, they slid the thin sheet off me and began to scrutinize each and every one of my physical imperfections with unmitigated glee.
And a touch of horror.
Obviously, I hadn’t realized that my looks were this much of a problem. Even though I’d been hearing it at home for years.
“Look at this totally overgrown bikini line!” exclaimed the small, improbably stacked Pamela Anderson clone.
I take that back. I’d never heard that comment at home. Inwardly, I shuddered to even think about my mother commenting on my bikini line. It made me want to take a long, scalding shower.
Nodding in agreement about the ravages of my bikini line, the Xena warrior standin, who seemed to be in charge, pursed her lips and wrinkled her wrinkle-less brow. “She has so been shaving and not waxing!”
“Ooo, look at this unibrow!”
Now that just plain wasn’t fair. I had nice eyebrows. And there was definitely a space between them.
Xena laid out her utensils on the bench next to me, affirming that the situation was completely out of control by saying, “We need to get started with
the works.”
The works? Shit. It was my worst nightmare come to life. Two perfect specimens of L.A. culture—meaning they had obviously had all manner of plastic surgery while barely out of high school and had all the apparent brain power of my three year old nephew, who liked to run around without his diaper on yelling, ‘No potty! No potty! No potty’ right before he pooped and it all ran down his chubby little legs—were about to have at my body, willy-nilly.
All in the name of giving me spa treatments.
And here I thought dealing with my mother was bad.
The blonde looked me up and down, ticking off the various procedures that they would have to perform. “Lip wax, arm wax…I think we have to wax everything!”
The Warrior Princess nodded sagely.
Frankly, I was having a hell of a time trying to keep myself from hopping off of the table and telling my new friends just what they could do with their large-obviously-silicone-breasted opinions.
Right then, with indignation burning a hole in my throat, the blonde picked up my left hand and started poking at my cuticles.
“Ow!” I said, because it hurt like hell. I reflexively wrenched my arm away.
Xena’s assistant glared at me. “There’s no need to get all testy, or whatever.”
I desperately wanted to show them testy.
“Can we say manicure, pedicure, and major hair help?”
Xena looked pained as she agreed. “Definitely, Bambi.”
Bambi? The blonde’s name was actually Bambi? Diane had said Jane and Jill. How could this be?
Had Jill died in a freak waxing accident?
Had Jane tripped and impaled herself on an eyelash curler?
Oh no. My cheeks hurt from how hard I was clamping down to keep from breaking out in hysterics. But even though I was way out of my depth with this whole spa thing, and even though I was positively dizzy with spa-scorn, I knew one thing for sure: Quiet participation was my best bet for getting out in one piece.
After all, Bambi and Xena held my fate in their hands.
Their impeccably well manicured hands, no less.
